Journey into Darkness
by deb
Summary: Summary: The best of intentions go horribly wrong. Notes: This is a 4th season story – with 3rd season characters. It attempts to fill some of the continuity gaps that “the powers that be” left when they “revised” the series.


Title: "Journey into Darkness" Author: ddrake Fandom(s): Airwolf Genre (general, hetero or slash) het Rating: M Summary: The best of intentions go horribly wrong. Warnings: Sex, violence, language – and perhaps I should warn for no String, Dom, or Airwolf – sorry. Notes: This is a 4th season story – with 3rd season characters. It attempts to fill some of the continuity gaps that "the powers that be" left when they "revised" the series. This story is set in an approximate 2 month span shortly before/during/after the "Blackjack" episode. Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Linda and Enfleurage for their input and betas – any errors that remain are mine. Airwolf (unfortunately) isn't mine. Characters and settings belong to their creators. No profit to be made from this story.

"Journey into Darkness"

Caitlin O'Shannessy sealed the fuel bill and stuck a stamp on the envelope. _Done_, she thought to herself. _Dom, that's the last time I stay late on a Friday night just to straighten out your bookkeeping._

Dropping the bill into the out box, she pushed her chair back and stood, stretching.

Dominic Santini might be an excellent pilot, but he hated doing the paperwork that came with running a successful business, and Stringfellow Hawke was no better. They would invariably let the invoices and bills pile up until they became an unmanageable mess. Ever since she had started working at Santini Air, it had somehow become her job to sort out that mess. If Dom would just ask her for help before it got out of hand, it would make things a lot easier for all of them.

Sighing, she checked that the coffee pot was turned off, and the hanger doors were locked. Certain that everything was secure, Caitlin pulled on her jacket then let herself out, locking the door behind her. She was headed for her car when she noticed the dark Lincoln parked beside it. Instincts kicked in, making her cautious. She approached slowly, her senses alert.

The Lincoln's window descended as she neared the car. "Caitlin, may I have a word with you?"

Caitlin recognized the voice before she was close enough to see the woman. "Marella! It's been awhile." It had, in fact, been over a year since she had seen Michael's favorite aide. Marella had been transferred to an assignment in Europe, but had recently returned and taken a leave of absence from the Firm in order to complete her final year of med school. "If you're looking for String, him and Dom have both left for the day."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you."

Caitlin leaned against the car. "Sure, what's up?" Marella's presence surprised her, but she doubted that it could be anything too serious. If there was a mission or if Michael was in some sort of trouble, Marella would be looking for the guys, not her.

The agent seemed unusually hesitant. "I need your help," she said, finally. "Could we go get a cup of coffee?"

"Can we make it McDonald's instead? I haven't eaten."

Marella agreed, and they were soon headed toward the nearest fast food restaurant. As they motored through the dark streets, Caitlin took the opportunity to examine her driver. Marella was wearing a purple sweater and black jeans, a radical departure from the white wardrobe preferred by Michael's people. _Not official business, then_.

The agent put off questions until they'd stopped at the drive-thru: coffee for herself and a burger and Coke for Caitlin. Marella parked in a quiet corner of the lot, shutting off the engine. Caitlin could sense the other woman's unease. Finally, Marella looked over at her. "This has to stay between the two of us. What I'm about to tell you -- I'm breaking every rule in the book, and my personal word."

"Is Michael in some sort of trouble?" Caitlin asked, concerned. It didn't really make sense that Marella would come to her instead of going to String, but it wouldn't be the first time the agent had gone against Firm policy to save her boss.

"Not yet," Marella muttered, so quietly that Caitlin barely caught the words. The agent took the lid off her coffee, opening the cream and adding it before replacing the lid. _Stalling_. She sipped the coffee. "St. John is alive, at least he was as of last January."

St. John. String's POW brother, missing for over a decade. Caitlin had, in the back of her mind, always assumed that despite String's intuition his brother was long dead. Now, Marella was saying that he wasn't.

"The Firm found him?"

A shake of Marella's head. "No. A personal contact of Michael's. At last report, St. John was being held in Cambodia."

"Cambodia?" From what Caitlin knew, St. John had disappeared on a mission in Viet Nam. "Are you sure it's St. John?"

"From the photographs and the information we have, yes, it's him."

"How did he end up in Cambodia?"

Marella sighed. "It's a long story. The short version is that he's been working for another division of the Firm, and was captured by the Khmer Rouge."

That raised a whole host of questions, but those questions could wait. "So now what? Has Michael called String yet? He's going to be ecstatic!"

"Michael's not going to tell Hawke, and you can't, either."

"What?" Caitlin demanded. "He's not telling String? Surely Michael's not planning to just leave St . John there?" The man's position might sometimes force him to do some questionable things, but Caitlin couldn't believe he would simply abandon String's brother in Southeast Asia.

Marella bit her lip. "Michael's going after him."

For a moment, Caitlin thought that she meant that the deputy director was sending Firm personnel, perhaps the Zebra Squad. That wouldn't explain the way Marella was acting. "What do you mean?"

"Michael's going to Cambodia. That's why I need your help."

"Michael? Himself? Alone?"

"Alone," Marella answered quietly. She didn't look as if she was very happy about it.

Taking a bite of her burger, Caitlin considered that. She remembered all too well the first time she had met the Firm's deputy director. Michael had gone into East Germany after Maria, but that had been personal, an attempt to rescue a former lover. "Michael's not a field agent."

"He used to be. It was before my time, but from the stories I've heard, he was one of the best in the business."

"That was before he got hurt?" It was as much a statement as a question. For as long as she had known him, the classically white-suited Michael Coldsmith Briggs the III had worn glasses with a darkened left lens, and walked with a cane.

"Yeah."

It was Caitlin's turn to hesitate, trying to find a polite way of asking the question. "Is he up to this? Physically, I mean."

Marella sipped at her coffee, and Caitlin saw that her hands were shaking. "How much do you know about what happened?"

"Nothing, really. I asked String once. You know how he is, never two words when one will do. He just said 'Moffet.'" Given String's reaction to that name, she had never asked again.

"You do know who Moffet was?"

"Airwolf's designer. He killed Gabrielle. A real nut job, from what I gather."

"That would be an understatement." Marella sipped again, holding the cup with both hands. "Airwolf was undergoing final testing at Red Star, the Firm's private proving grounds. Moffet was piloting. When he finished the demonstration run, he turned and dumped half of her armament into the control center. Michael – I don't know if he heard something in Moffet's voice, or if it was just intuition. A split second before Moffet opened up with the guns, Michael pushed me to the floor and threw himself over me. If he hadn't, we both would have died."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you..." If she had known that the other woman had been there, she wouldn't have asked.

"It's all right." Marella leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes. "I was stunned,. When I came around Moffet and Airwolf were gone and the place was burning. Most of the staff was dead. I thought Michael was, too, until I found a pulse." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, opening her eyes. "I was banged up some, myself. I didn't see him for a month. When I did, he was propped up in bed, working. He told me he was 'fine.'" She laughed humorlessly. "I've seen his medical files. Fractured skull, ruptured spleen, dislocated shoulder, the ligaments in his knee torn to hell. His idea of fine. But, to answer your question. The Firm has a PT test, similar to the Army's. Committee members are exempt from taking it. Michael takes it anyhow, and passes. I don't know how, but he does."

"Why is he going? Doesn't the Firm have people who specialize in this sort of thing?"

"Michael is doing this on his own," Marella answered. "He's doing it without Firm support. He believes that the Firm knows where St John is, and have chosen not to initiate a rescue."

"What? Why?" Caitlin nearly dropped her soda. "Are they abandoning his brother so String will keep flying for them?"

"It's not that simple. It's not about Airwolf." She finished the coffee. "Michael's been looking for St. John for three years. He's heard stories. You have to understand we have no proof. This is mostly rumor and speculation. We haven't been able to find any hard evidence." Her hand closed around the empty cup, crumpling it. "Sometime in the late 1970's, the Firm liberated a number of American POWs from Viet Nam. The men were rehabilitated, and then were convinced that their country needed them to go back into Southeast Asia as spies."

Caitlin had dealt with the clandestine government agency long enough to read between the lines. Not everyone at the Firm shared Michael's ethics. "Convinced? By that you mean..."

"They were brainwashed."

"Our own veterans? Why?"

"Politics. When the war ended, the President assured the American people that all of our POWs had been returned. They weren't, and the government knew it. When those men were rescued years later --"

It wasn't hard to figure out the rest. "If they'd shown up, it would have been a major embarrassment."

"Precisely"

"So that's why Michael is going."

"From the information we have, it's not just St. John. There are approximately half a dozen former servicemen being held. Michael intends to make sure they all make it home this time."

Caitlin couldn't say she blamed him for feeling that he needed to take matters into his own hands. It was obvious that the committee had its own vested interests and couldn't be trusted on this. "You said that you need my help?"

"Michael is flying commercial to Thailand. From there, his contact is providing a boat ride down the Mekong to the Khmer Rouge encampment. Once he frees the prisoners, I'm to fly in with a Huey and pick everyone up and get them out of the country," Marella explained.

"How can I help?"

"If there was someone else to fly the Huey, I might be able to convince Michael to let me go in with him." Marella held up a hand, cutting off any possible reply. "Before you say anything, you need to know. Part of the deal with Michael's contact is that the Huey will be unarmed. The man is in the Cambodian government, and he doesn't want an international incident or a confrontation with the local military."

Caitlin's mind flashed back to all the times Michael had stuck his neck out for String and Dom, the times he had risked himself to come to her aid. Michael had been right there with String when Alonzo had kidnapped her, again when she and Dom had both been taken by Tran. Against all logic and common sense, he had stayed while Babe had tried to disarm the bomb Ken Sawyer had wired to her. There really wasn't any question. "I'm in."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm in."

Marella sighed. "Now all we need to do is convince Michael."

"How do we do that?"

"I wish I knew. Shall we go and try to talk some sense into him?"

Caitlin glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten o'clock. "We won't drag him out of bed, will we?"

Marella laughed. "Not likely. It's the weekend. I doubt if he'll be in bed before dawn."

"Let's do it, then." Caitlin agreed, trying to sound more enthusiastic than she felt. String might have the ability to convince Michael to do things his way, but she doubted that she could be nearly as persuasive. Flying into Cambodia actually seemed a less intimidating prospect than trying to sway Michael's plans.

Caitlin stuffed their trash back into the McDonald's bag, and Marella started the car. There was little said as the agent negotiated the dark, winding roads between Thousand Oaks and the coast, finally pulling into a long driveway. She stopped in front of the house, an unusual sprawling single story perched on the crest of a canyon ridge. Caitlin followed Marella up the walk. Looking around as the agent rang the bell, she noticed that there appeared to be a number of lights on within the house, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Apparently Marella was right, at least they wouldn't be dragging the deputy director out of bed.

The door opened a minute later, revealing Michael himself. _White pants and sweater_, Caitlin noted with a touch of amusement. She had always wondered what he wore when he wasn't working. _Well, that answers that question._

"Marella, I didn't expect-- " he began, then noticed Caitlin standing behind her. "Damn it, Marella. You swore to me--" The glare he fixed on his aide would have melted stone.

"We need her help, sir," Marella answered levelly.

He didn't move for a moment, and Caitlin wondered if he might slam the door in their faces. Finally, he stepped back. "You might as well come in."

Michael led them into the den, a dark room seemingly at odds with his preferred wardrobe. Heavy leather chairs and an oversized desk flanked the fire burning in the fireplace. "Make yourself comfortable, we'll be right back," he told Caitlin, steering Marella out into the hallway.

Alone, Caitlin took the opportunity to look around. Bookcases lined the walls, thick with an assortment of books. Music played from hidden speakers. Unexpectedly, a dog-eared Isaac Asimov paperback rested on the coffee table, beside a half empty wineglass. Judging from the position of the bookmark, Michael had nearly finished reading the sci-fi novel.

She looked up as the others returned, Archangel carrying an open bottle of wine, and Marella with two glasses. Marella passed her a glass, keeping the second for herself. Michael filled them before retrieving his own glass from the table. He eased himself onto the corner of the desk, taking the weight off his leg. Caitlin noticed that here on his own turf, he wasn't carrying the cane. "I'm sorry Marella wasted your time," he said. "As much as I appreciate your offer, we won't need your assistance."

"You have another pilot?" Perhaps he had given the job to one of his other aides.

"Marella will be doing the flying." He cut off her protest before she could begin to voice it. "I'm going alone, Cait."

"Why won't you take Marella with you?" Caitlin knew it wasn't that he refused to allow his female agents into danger. She could easily think of half a dozen times he had sent one of his "angels" into a risky situation.

He rose, crossing to the fireplace. He set his glass on the mantle. "Marella's not available. I need to fly out Wednesday night. She has exams all week. They'll be over and done with in time for her to make the pick up run."

"I could postpone my exams," the agent suggested from where she sat, sipping her wine.

Michael turned toward her. "How long do you think it would take the committee to find out about it? I'm taking my first vacation in five years, that's already raising red flags. If you disappear at the same time, Zeus will know we're up to something."

"If Marella's not available, why not take String with you?" Caitlin asked. "I'm sure he'd rather be flying Airwolf, but given the situation I know he'd agree to go with you, even if it wasn't his brother being held."

"No." He sipped the wine. "Satellite images confirm that the camp is still there, but the information I have on St. John is over a year old. He could have been moved a dozen times since then. I'm not taking Hawke on what might very well turn out to be another wild goose chase. Especially not now."

_Not now?_ Caitlin realized what he meant. Six months earlier, the Firm had done blood testing on Le Van Hawke. The tests had proven that Le could not be St. John's son. String had wanted to adopt the child anyhow, but she had joined Michael and Dom in convincing him that it was a bad idea. The boy would be in constant danger if he was with them. Too many people were searching for Airwolf, and would think nothing of using Le as a hostage to get it. String had finally agreed, and had allowed a Vietnamese-American family to adopt the boy.

It had torn String apart. The usually reclusive pilot had bonded with the boy he believed to be his nephew, and Le's departure had pushed String even deeper into his self-imposed exile. He would undoubtedly still be sulking at the cabin if Michael hadn't decided to update Airwolf's systems. Over the previous few months, they had been busy installing the upgrades Michael had provided, as well as a bank of monitoring equipment out at the Lair. Michael's timing had been a lucky coincidence; the work had kept String too busy to dwell on his latest loss.

_Except that it wasn't a coincidence, was it? _ It dawned on her that the timing had been intentional, and she wondered if Dom had figured it out. _Dom, you really do need to cut Michael some slack._

"Well, if String is out, what about one of your other angels? Samantha, maybe?" While Michael had employed a number of assistants in Marella's absence, it seemed that he increasingly relied on Sam as his favorite "Girl Friday."

He shook his head. "I can't use any of my people, for the same reason I can't take Marella. Zeus may be a fool, but he's not an idiot. If he finds out what I'm doing, he'll find a way to put a stop to it. Like it or not, there's no other option. I need to do this alone."

Caitlin considered that, and reached a decision. Michael had been there too many times for String and Dom, and for her. "There is another option," she said quietly. "I'll go with you. The holidays are coming, I'll tell the guys I'm headed home to Texas to visit my folks. Nobody will connect that with your vacation."

Marella shifted in her chair, her discomfort showing. "Caitlin, when I asked for your help, I didn't intend--"

"I know you didn't. But it's the only workable solution." She looked towards him. "Michael?"

"No."

"Why not? The committee will never suspect we're together."

Michael returned to his desk, circling it. "Cambodia is no place for you."

That caught her by surprise. "You're the last person I would have expected to be chauvinistic."

"It's not about you being female. You should know that. Most of my agents are women. But you're not an agent, and you're not military. You don't have that training. You haven't lived in a war zone. Officially or not, that's what Cambodia is. Pol Pot may no longer be in power, but the Khmer Rouge loyalists haven't changed their ways. This is a regime that killed millions of their own people; the ones they didn't murder outright, they starved.."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick file folder, then sat down on the corner of the desk, still holding the file. "Have you ever killed anyone, Cait? I'm not talking about Airwolf's guns, I mean up close, hand to hand combat, with a gun to the temple, or a knife to the throat?"

She shuddered. "No."

"I have. Marella has. Hawke and Santini both have." He tossed the folder onto the table in front of Caitlin. "This isn't an Airwolf mission. This is going to be dirty."

She glanced at the folder, then looked up at Michael expectantly, silently asking permission. "Open it," he said.

Caitlin did as he asked. The first thing she saw was a photograph of skulls. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, stacked into piles. More photos. What appeared to be a prison, a body shackled to a rusty iron bed frame. _Was that a bloodstain on the floor?_ Turning the page brought more horrors, torture devices, mass graves, villagers so thin they were on the edge of starvation. "The Vietnamese took those pictures," Michael explained. "That's what the Khmer Rouge did to their own people."

The photos sickened her, but they also fueled her resolve. "All the more reason. You can't do this alone." She had to make him understand. "Think about it. What would it do to String if you couldn't get St. John out just because you were too stubborn to accept help?" _What if you got yourself killed, too? _The last thing String needed was to feel responsible for the death of another friend.

Looking back down at the photos, Caitlin could sense his gaze on her, sizing her up. _Trying to decide if she would be more of an asset or a liability._ Finally, he spoke. "You understand that there's no backup. We're on our own. There's no safety net if anything goes wrong."

"I know." She didn't like it, but she understood it.

Michael stared at her a minute more. "We leave Wednesday night." Standing, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a credit card, then passed the card to Caitlin. "Take this. Buy whatever you need. Marella can advise you." He looked over at his aide. "I'll contact Choi and tell him about the change in plans. Marella, I'm leaving you in charge of passports, tickets, the usual. I'm sure you can come up with some creative aliases."

He turned back to Caitlin. "That file contains an overview of the intelligence we have on Cambodia and the Khmer Rouge. I suggest you study it. Once we iron out the fine points, I'll have Marella provide you with the mission details and whatever cover story she comes up with. We'll meet here Sunday and go over everything. I trust that you won't share any of this with Hawke and Santini?"

"I won't. I'll tell them that my mother asked me to come home for Christmas, and that I've decided to go. The timing is perfect, with the holidays coming the studios are shut down and things are pretty quiet at Santini Air, so I won't really be missed. Besides, Dom's niece is coming into town on Monday for a few weeks. She can fill in if they're short handed."

Caitlin wasn't about to tell Michael the real reason behind Jo Santini's visit, or what String and Dom would be busy with in her absence. There had been too many close calls for the Airwolf crew in recent months, and they had decided amongst themselves that it was asking for trouble to have all of the pilots trained on Airwolf working together, especially doing stunt work and undercover missions. Jo was a trusted relative, and a skilled flier. The guys planned to train her on Airwolf, just in case. It was a prudent precaution, but undoubtedly one that Michael would not approve of. _If he knew. _

For a second, the corner of Michael's lip lifted in the barest of smiles, and Caitlin wondered if he did somehow know what String was planning. _Impossible_, she assured herself. _If he even suspected, he'd be having a fit about it._ She pushed that thought out of her mind.

"Marella, since this was your idea, you're bringing the pizza on Sunday." His attitude had improved since they had arrived, and Caitlin could tell he was teasing his aide.

"Certainly, sir," she agreed good-naturedly.

The two women said their goodbyes, and Marella took Caitlin back to where her car waited at the hanger. As she drove home, Caitlin tried not to second-guess herself. She didn't want to go, and yet she knew she had to. Arriving at her apartment, she dropped the file on the end table, fully intending to get a good night's sleep and study the material in the morning. It sat untouched as she changed and completed her evening routine. As she headed for bed, curiosity and dread got the best of her and she picked it up. _Just one quick peek_, she promised herself.

Dawn found her still reading

The sun was dipping low in the sky on Wednesday afternoon as Caitlin drove towards Michael's house. They would be leaving for Cambodia in a matter of hours..She knew it was what she had to do, but she still wasn't entirely comfortable with her decision.

Going into a war zone with String or Dom would be one thing, especially with the firepower of the Lady behind them. This was something else entirely. This was Michael, a man she didn't really know, and one that neither Stringfellow Hawke nor Dominic Santini totally trusted. Worse, it was without the comforting presence of Airwolf at her back.

_If the roles were reversed, he'd do it for you_, she told herself. She knew it was true. Michael had been there for her, he'd been there for all of them. Now, with luck, she could repay that debt, and help rescue St. John as well.

Stopping at a red light, she leaned over, checking her reflection in the rear view mirror. The dark, nearly black hair was jarring. Marella had been right, though. The dye would eventually wash out, but her natural red hair would have instantly marked her as a foreigner in Cambodia. Not that anyone would ever mistake her for Asian close up, but from a distance she might pass a casual observation.

Caitlin took a deep breath, turning her full attention back to her driving. She was unfamiliar with the back roads that snaked through the canyons between Ventura Boulevard and the coastline, and getting lost on her was to the deputy director's would be incredibly embarrassing.

She tried to concentrate, but her subconscious mind insisted on running through their plans one final time. They would take the late night flight out of Los Angeles International to Bangkok, then connect with a private flight to Huai Phai, near the Thai-Laotian border. A boat would take them slowly down the Mekong, letting them off near the Khmer Rouge camp. Once they rescued the prisoners, Marella would pick them up in the Huey and return them to Huai Phai. From there, they would bring the men home by way of the military base in Manila.

On paper it seemed simple, but there were so many things that could go wrong. There was no way of knowing if St. John was still being held at the enemy camp, and while Michael seemed to trust his contact, Caitlin knew nothing about the man or what his motives were.

Despite her fears of getting lost, Caitlin found Michael's house easily. In the daylight, it was even more impressive than it had appeared at night. Caitlin saw that Marella's Lincoln was already parked in the driveway.

She rang the doorbell and Marella let her in. The agent told Caitlin that there was coffee in the kitchen, then excused herself to finish her work on their passports. Caitlin headed in the direction Marella had suggested; she knew where the kitchen was from their dinner on Sunday night.

A dark haired man sat at the table, his back to her as she entered. "Oh, I didn't know anyone..." she said in surprise, not expecting Michael to have company. "Oh!" she said again, laughing as she saw who it was. "You sure look different."

"Good." Michael grinned, amused.

Caitlin stepped back, taking a long look at him. Like hers, his hair had been dyed dark, and he had shaved off his mustache He wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses instead of his usual half-darkened ones, and his wardrobe was decidedly different. In place of the white three-piece suit, he wore denims, a chambray shirt and cowboy boots. "What do you think?" he asked.

"If I passed you on the street, I wouldn't know you. That hair makes you look younger." That much was the truth, but she did miss the mustache, somehow he looked odd without it.

He chuckled. "Maybe I should keep it this color." Michael started to get up. "Let me get you a coffee."

She waved him back into his seat. "I can get it." Caitlin filled a cup, found cream in the refrigerator. Coffee fixed, she slid into a chair.

"Bags packed?" he asked.

"In my trunk.."

"Nervous?"

She looked up, but the mirrored glasses made it impossible to read his expression. "A little," she admitted. _More like scared half to death. _ Caitlin wasn't going to admit that. "Everything set?"

Michael nodded. "Marella's just finishing up the paperwork.." He grinned. "By the way, I like your dress."

Caitlin could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. The dress was fire engine red, cut a couple inches too short and revealing more cleavage than she was comfortable showing. _ It wasn't something she would __buy, but it was something Billie Jean Marsh would wear, and until they reached the Mekong, that was who she would be. _ Billie Jean Marsh and Bobby Lee West, the aliases Marella had arranged for them – the slick Texan car dealer and his soon-to-be third wife bimbo fiancée. "Thanks, I think. I swear I'm going to kill Marella." Caitlin thought the agent had been entirely too creative in arranging their alternate identities.

"Did I hear someone threatening my life?" As if on cue, Marella appeared from the other room.

"She's not serious about it. However, I might be. Really, Marella, the best alias you could come up with was car salesman?" There was humor in his voice.

Marella ignored him and raised the instant camera she was carrying. "I need to take photos for your passports." She scanned the room, chose a bare section of wall. "Over here will work. Caitlin?"

She stood where the agent asked. Marella snapped a couple shots. "That will do it, thanks. Your turn, sir."

Caitlin returned to the table, and Michael rose to take her place. She wondered about the glasses, it didn't seem like shades would be allowed in a passport photograph. As if in answer to her unspoken question, Michael reached up and pulled them off. Caitlin found herself staring across the room into his eyes, even at the distance a striking blue. Both of them.

_Artificial? _ If so it was an incredible job. She looked away as Marella took pictures, and she heard the agent excuse herself.

"Our little secret?"

Caitlin looked up as Michael sat back down beside her. He was wearing the glasses again, and his expression was unreadable. "Uh, sure." She wondered if she looked as confused as she felt.

His lips twitched into a smile. "In case you're wondering..." He tugged the sunglasses off, and turned them to show he that behind the silvered surface, one lens was opaque. "I've got twenty-twenty vision in both eyes. Unfortunately, when I take these off, you have a twin sister." He slipped them back on. "As much as I might like that dress, seeing two of them is rather disconcerting."

She wasn't sure she understood. "Double vision?"

"Yeah. Head injury. I was in a coma for two weeks." He shrugged. "The outcome could have been a lot worse."

As a Highway Patrol helicopter pilot, Caitlin had sometimes been the first on the scene of an accident. A part of the job had been a first responder course. She had enough basic medical training to know that he was right. A coma that lasted that long could have left him with amnesia, seizures -- he might never have woken up at all.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Marella's return. The agent set passports, IDs and tickets on the table. "You should be all set."

Michael thumbed the documents. "Good work, Marella. Like always."

"Thank you."

"Now get out of here. You've got more exams tomorrow. Go study." Something in Michael's voice and manner suggested a private joke between him and his aide.

Marella laughed. "And you can get some sleep." She turned serious. "I'll be in Huai Phai by Monday morning. As soon as I get your signal..."

"You'll swoop in and carry us all back to civilization. Bring coffee – better yet, a bottle of champagne. If we pull this off, we're going to deserve a celebration."

She nodded, started to leave, hesitated. "I wish I was going with you, sir. Be careful, both of you."

Caitlin heard the Lincoln pull out of the driveway. Curiosity got the best of her. "What was that about studying?"

Michael got up and refilled his cup. "I don't think she's ever studied for a test in her life. She has eidetic memory. Marella reads it once, and it's locked in her head forever. A useful talent in the business, I wish I could do it."

"I can see where it would come in handy."

Michael checked his watch. "We've got about an hour and a half before we need to leave for LAX. Are you hungry?

"Maybe a little."

She expected him to suggest stopping to pick up something. Instead, he opened the refrigerator. "Not a lot of choices. I cleaned most of this out, knowing I'd be gone. How about an omelet?"

"That's fine." Caitlin watched as he started pulling things out. Eggs, cheese, ham. She rose and joined him. "What can I do to help?"

"You like onions and peppers?"

"Sure."

He handed her the vegetables. "Start cutting. Knife's in the drawer, cutting board below."

She did as he asked, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Michael cracked the eggs with the ease of a professional chef_._ He added the other ingredients. "I never would have pictured you as a cook."

"I'm a bachelor You expect me to starve?" He grinned, gesturing toward a cabinet. "Plates."

"I guess I expected you to order take out like most of the other single men I know." She set the table.

He divided the omelet between them. "It gets old after awhile."

They sat down. She tasted the eggs. "This is delicious."

"Thanks." He reached for something on the back of the table. "Before I forget--" He slid a small velvet box towards her.

"What's this?" Caitlin asked. It looked like a jewelry box.

"Your ring. You are supposed to be my fiancée, after all." He chuckled. "I'm sure Bobby Lee would get his girlfriend an engagement ring."

Caitlin opened the box. The ring was gorgeous, with one of the largest stones she'd ever seen. She looked at him incredulously. "I can't wear this into Cambodia! It's got to be worth a fortune!"

He laughed. "Don't worry about it. Cubic Zirconia. It's fake. I hope it fits."

She slipped it on. It fit perfectly. She held her hand up so she could better admire the ring. "Fake or not, it's beautiful."

They finished eating, and Caitlin offered to do the dishes. He shook his head. "We'll just pack them into the dishwasher. The housekeeper will be here in the morning. She'll take care of them."

"Housekeeper, huh?" Caitlin had gotten comfortable enough with Michael that she didn't mind teasing him a bit.

"As you said, I'm a bachelor. I might cook, but I don't clean." He held out his hand. "Let me have your keys. I'll put my bag in your trunk, and we can get out of here."

The airport was quiet, most flights having taken off hours earlier. She suspected Michael might have booked the late departure for just that reason. He had taken off his shades as they entered the building, slipping them into a pocket. He hovered over her, keeping his hand on her elbow as they checked in and passed through customs and security. Caitlin wondered how much of his closeness was an act based on their aliases, and how much was the disorientation she knew he must be feeling.

They found their gate, and Michael led her to seats in the corner, out of the way, but with a clear view of the area. He dropped into the chair with a loud sigh, and his hand came up to massage his temple.

Caitlin sat down beside him. "Are you all right?"

He glanced over at her. "I will be. Just a nasty headache."

"I think I've got some aspirin." She started to rummage in her carry-on.

He waved it off. "I've already taken ibuprofen."

"Not working, huh?"

"Helps with the knee, but it won't touch the headache."

"So that's why you're not limping." She had noticed as they walked through the airport that his gait was nearly normal.

He shrugged. "Partly. Mostly it's a matter of remembering not to."

She watched him, the way that he casually scanned the area without seeming to. With the double vision, it had to be hell. "Shit," he hissed, so quietly Caitlin barely heard him.

"What?" she whispered.

"That guard."

Caitlin spotted the security guard headed in their general direction. From his unhurried pace, she guessed that he was just making his rounds. For some reason, Michael had noticed him. _Damn it, they must know each other. _ It would be too obvious to jump up and stand between them. _Now what do I do?_ Not seeing an alternative, she leaned across Michael, pulling him into a kiss, letting her hair fall across their faces further shielding them.

Initially stiff with surprise, he relaxed into the embrace, playing along as she had hoped he would. She held the position, waiting, mentally counting the seconds it would take the guard to pass them. Judging that it had been long enough, she eased back, still holding him close and blocking the guard's view. "Is he gone?"

"Yeah."

Caitlin released Michael and sat back. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure what else to do."

"No need to apologize. That was quick thinking, and not entirely unpleasant." Michael grinned. "Miller was never very observant, chances are he would have walked right past us, but..." He gestured toward the distant guard. "He worked for me. The bastard tried to get fresh with Samantha in the copy room. I fired him. She broke his arm."

"Attaboy, Sam."

Miller didn't return, and their flight boarded without further incident. Their seats were in first class, a perk Caitlin wasn't accustomed to. It was one she had come to appreciate by the time they landed in Bangkok. They had spent over twenty hours in the air, another hour or two changing planes. Somehow they had crossed enough time zones that a 9pm departure had essentially turned into a 9am arrival. Her internal clock was completely thrown off, and she wasn't even sure what day it was.

Customs moved relatively quickly, and they met up in the airport bar with the Thai pilot who would fly them to Huai Phai. .He was a small, polite man who insisted on carrying Caitlin's luggage for her. The trip was uneventful, save for the unavoidably bumpy landing. She doubted whether the Cessna Citation was designed to be landed on a grass strip, but their pilot did an admirable job.

Again carrying Caitlin's bags, he walked them to a tiny guest house, surprisingly close to the makeshift runway. He gave them their final instructions before he returned to the plane. Michael and Caitlin would wait at the guest house for the few hours that remained until darkness descended, when their ride would come to drive them to the river.

Caitlin called first dibs on the bathroom, eager to get out of the dress she had been wearing since leaving Los Angeles. She showered quickly and changed into a pair of Capri pants and a short sleeved blouse. She reorganized her packing, moving the items she needed into a knapsack she could carry onto the boat. Finished. she laid down on the bed while Michael cleaned up.

"You awake?'

Caitlin hadn't expected to doze, but knew she must have, because Michael's words woke her. She sat up on the edge of the bed, stretching, and found him standing before her. He was carrying two cups of coffee that he had gotten from somewhere, and she accepted one of them gratefully. "Thanks."

"It's black," he warned. "There wasn't any milk."

"Doesn't matter." It was likely that it would be the last coffee they would taste until the mission was over.

Michael lowered himself into the room's only chair, sipping his own coffee. He had changed, too, into black pants and t-shirt, a black cloth patch covering his left eye. The change ran deeper than his clothing. He had a different air about him, something more basic and primal. Despite the oppressive heat, she felt a chill run through her. Regardless of the warnings Michael had given her, on some level Caitlin hadn't really been able to associate the man Dom called "The Spotless Wonder" with the horrors he had described. The man now before her was someone else entirely. _You knew what you were getting into_, she reminded herself. That knowledge didn't make her feel any better.

Caitlin had just finished the coffee when she heard the vehicle approaching. The engine was loud in the still night, muffler either missing or rusted through. Michael spoke to the driver, and waved her to join them. She stowed her pack in the back of the Jeep beside Michael's, then climbed into the rear seat. The driver took off with a spray of gravel, turning to bounce down a rutted path through the forest. To both Caitlin's relief and dismay, it didn't take long to reach the river.

The boat that waited there for them might have been as old as Thailand itself. It appeared to be some sort of houseboat, wide and low in the water, crates and barrels stacked haphazardly on the deck.. In broken, accented English, the driver of the Jeep introduced their skipper as a man named Lue. Lue seemed nearly as old and worn as his boat, with long graying hair pulled back into a knot, and a vile smelling cigarette hanging between stained teeth. He spoke no English, and Michael exchanged words with him in a language Caitlin didn't recognize.

They were ushered into a tiny room, the single candle on the table revealing bench seats built in on either side, a small window above each. Caitlin turned to find Lue's eyes on her, leering in a manner that needed no translation. Michael saw the look as well, and he pulled her towards him, arm wrapped protectively around her. He reached down and took her hand, raising it so that Lue could see the ring on her finger, and barked something sharp and guttural to their skipper. The man shrugged and left them alone.

As soon as the door had closed behind Lue, Michael released Caitlin, moving away from her. She looked up at him, amused. "Just what did you say to him?"

Michael hesitated, taking the time to slip the pack off his back and set it on the deck. "That you were my property."

She laughed at his obvious discomfort. "Thanks, I think."

He returned her grin. "He won't bother you. I told him that I'd cut his balls off if he did."

"You didn't!" Caitlin caught the look on his face and grimaced. "You did. Ouch. Remind me to call you the next time one of my flying students tries to get fresh with me."

In the dim light, she looked around the cramped quarters. There was a door in the corner, open enough that she could see that it led to the head. The boat reeked of diesel fuel, rotted fish and stale sweat, and the odor that came from that corner was even less appealing. "Well, I guess we might as well make ourselves to home."

"Let's see if Choi took care of us." Michael raised the top of one of the benches, revealing a storage area beneath. "Looks like he came through."

Caitlin walked around the table to stand beside Michael. The storage compartment was stocked with rifles, ammunition and grenades. Following his lead, she raised the seat of second bench, finding a cooler and packages of snacks and cereal. Michael joined her, and lifted the cooler out of the compartment. He opened it, "Bottled water and the swill the locals consider beer. Some fruit in here, too. You want anything?" he asked.

"No thanks." She lowered the cover to the bench, and tossed her knapsack on it. It wouldn't make a very comfortable bed, but it would do.

Caitlin heard the boat's diesel start up and shot a questioning glance at Michael. "Lue's going to move back out into the river, then anchor for the night," he explained.

She nodded, smothering a yawn as she sat down. "Why don't you get some sleep?" he asked. "There's not much we can do until morning."

It sounded good to her. As bored as she'd been on the long flight, she really hadn't been able to sleep on the plane. "What about you?"

"In a little while." He gestured toward the candle. "Is that going to bother you?"

She shook her head. "No. If you want to blow it out later, that's fine, too."

Caitlin laid down, her back towards him. She adjusted the knapsack until it made a serviceable pillow. The engine cut off, leaving them in silence. It was the last thing she remembered before sleep took her.

Caitlin awoke slowly, reluctant to abandon the tranquility of sleep for the reality she knew awaited her. She wanted nothing more than to find herself back in her own bed, safe in California.

The Mekong intruded. She could feel as much as hear the soft throb of the diesel and the gentle slap of water on wood, and she could sense their movement. Then there was the heat. It was hot -- brutally, blazingly, oppressively hot.

She opened her eyes, blinking in the relative brightness. Harsh sunlight streamed through the two windows, the streaks of grime doing little to block the sun's rays. The light did little to change her initial impressions from the night before. If anything, it only accented the age and condition of the boat and their accommodations.

Across from her, Michael lazed on his own bunk, leaning back against the wall, his feet up. She wasn't sure if he was awake. Sometime after she had gone to sleep, he had stripped off his shirt. Michael was a well-built man. He was more muscular than she would have guessed, undoubtedly stronger than anyone who saw him in a suit would ever suspect.

There was what looked like a surgical scar on his left shoulder, another extending upwards from somewhere below his waistline. There were other marks, likely the jagged reminders of flying debris. Not wanting to be caught staring, Caitlin looked away. Yawning, she sat up on the edge of the bunk. Despite the heat, she desperately wished she had a cup of coffee.

"About time you got up."

She glanced over to find Michael grinning. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon."

That got her attention. "What? Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't think you had any important appointments this morning. Unless you're planning to meet Lue...?" he teased.

If she had been holding anything, she would have thrown it at him. Since she wasn't, she made a face. "I'm starting to think that by the time we get to that camp, I'm going to wish I had let you come here alone." Caitlin turned serious. "You should have got me up."

Michael shrugged. "I've dozed this morning, too. Blame it on the jet lag. Too many time zones." He patted the bench he sat on. "After you fell sleep, I went over the weapons. Everything is in good shape."

Now she felt guilty. He had shifted just as many time zones as she had. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"As much as I ever get. Sleep is over rated."

"I think I'll go get changed." She zipped open her bag pulling out shorts and a tank top, the coolest clothing she had, as well as the other things she needed. "I'll be back." Caitlin went into the head.

She returned a few minutes later, to find Michael finishing a banana and a granola bar. "Grab yourself something to eat," he suggested. "You want water or beer?"

"Too early for beer." Never big on eating breakfast, she just took a piece of fruit as Michael got up to get their drinks.

"I suppose it is if you just got up." Still ribbing her, he turned to reach into the cooler.

"Oh!" The sound escaped her before she could stop it. _Dear God_. What had happened to him? _Red Star_, she realized. _Marella said that the place burned. _

Michael grabbed a bottle of water and one of beer and closed the cooler. He handed Caitlin the water,

and sat back down. "Wasn't as bad as it looks," He unscrewed the cap and sipped the beer, grimacing at the taste as he swallowed.

"Yeah." _Like hell it wasn't._ His back was a mass of scar tissue, patchworked by skin grafts. She couldn't begin to imagine how much pain those scars represented. She tried to imagine the horror of being on the wrong end of that helicopter. "How can you deal with it?"

He looked at her oddly. "I don't have much choice."

Caitlin shook her head. "I mean Airwolf. You send String on missions, you provide fuel and ammunition, You've even flown with him. How...?"

He looked thoughtful, and took a long moment before he answered. "For one thing, I don't remember any of it. As far as I'm concerned, one minute I was in the limo headed for the test site, the next I woke up in the ICU. For another -- if someone cuts you with a knife, do you blame the knife, or the person holding it? I can't bring myself to blame Airwolf for what Moffet did with her."

"I don't know if I could be so rational about it."

"Honestly, I don't know if I would be, if Airwolf was still in the Firm's possession." He took a long swallow, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I trust Hawke implicitly. And if you ever tell him I said so, I'll deny every word of it." He set the bottle down. "Enough of this maudlin nonsense. Do you play cards?"

"Some."

He reached into his bag. "Poker?"

She laughed. "I'm not sure I can afford to play poker with you."

Michael pulled out a deck of cards. "Penny poker it is, then. Name your game."

They played cards most of the day. Caitlin was surprised to find that she won almost as many hands as Michael did. Apparently she had learned the game better than she thought during the break room card games back in the Highway Patrol.

The sun was starting to set when Lue brought a tray with two bowls, a pair of chipped cups and a pot of tea. Michael handed her a book of matches, and she used one to light a candle while Michael spoke with their skipper. Lue went away, and Michael set the tray on the table.

Caitlin eyed their dinner dubiously. "What is it?"

He tasted it, less cautious than she was. "Rice, bok choy, and some sort of fish. Doesn't look like catfish; I think it might be skate. It could use some seasoning, but it's not bad."

She sampled the other bowl, spearing at a chunk of fish. It wasn't the first time she'd ever used them, but even so, the chopsticks felt awkward in her hand. Michael was right about the flavor. "Needs salt," she agreed. Caitlin poured the tea. "I'd rather have coffee, but it will do."

"Lue plans to stop for the night soon. He tells me the river is quiet here, as long as we keep our voices down, we can go out on deck once the sun has set."

It would feel good to get some fresh air. It might not be much cooler outside, but at least there they might find some hint of a breeze.

They finished eating and waited as darkness descended over the river. Caitlin reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of lotion. She began smearing it on her arms and legs. Michael grinned. "No wonder they don't let women into combat. They'd never survive without their beauty lotions."

Caitlin glanced up at him. "It's not beauty lotion. Avon Skin So Soft body oil."

"And the difference is?'

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean there's something you don't know?"

He laughed at that. "Enlighten me."

"It works as insect repellent. Lots of hunters and fishermen use it." She finished what she was doing and passed him the bottle. "Try it."

Michael squirted some out into his hand and sniffed it. "You're sure you're not pulling my leg?"

"I'm not pulling anything." She watched him apply the oil then reached for the bottle. "Give me. I'll do your back." Too late to retract her offer, she remembered what a mess his back was.

He looked at her for a moment, then did as she had asked. Caitlin rose and circled the table, sitting down beside him. He turned away from her, and she hesitated. "I'm not going to hurt you, am I?"

"No. That's probably the best thing for it."

"Hmm?"

"It tightens up. Feels like your skin is half a size too small."

Caitlin closed her eyes, but she could still feel the damage beneath her hands as she applied the lotion. Shortly after she had started working at Santini Air, she had brushed her arm against the hot engine of one of the helicopters. It had blistered instantly. It had only been a small burn, but it had hurt like the devil, and had taken what seemed like weeks to heal. She forced herself to open her eyes. Michael had lived it, was still living with it. The least she could do was to not look away.

There were other marks, ones not caused by fire. Her first thought was that they were more injuries from Red Star. These were older, though, beneath the burns, so faint she hadn't noticed them earlier. More or less parallel lines. Caitlin bit her lip. _She knew what they were. _ "Who whipped you?" she asked quietly, putting the bottle away.

He didn't answer her, instead, Michael reached up and slipped off the eye patch, shoving it into a pocket. He raked his hands through his hair. "Ah, better."

"Your eyes won't bother you?"

He shrugged. "No one has ever been able to explain why, but when it's as dark as this, the double vision is less of a problem. It's still there, of course, but it's..." he searched for the word, "Muted. I don't get the headaches." He checked the window. "Should be dark enough." Michael piled the dishes onto the tray. "Lue said to leave these outside the door." He picked up the tray, and they went outside.

The moon was nearly full, and the reflection shimmered off the water It was a scene so radically at odds with where they were going, and the camp that awaited them. It was peaceful here, in other circumstances, she might have considered it romantic. They found crates to sit on, and Caitlin breathed deeply, enjoying the night air.

"Mike Briggs. My father," Michael said, shaking her from her thoughts.

It took Caitlin a moment to realize what he was talking about. "Your father took a whip to you." She thought she might be sick to her stomach. _What child deserved that? _Ifhisfather went by Mike, then it certainly explained whyhe preferred to be called Michael.

He looked off across the water. "Actually, it was a riding crop. More times than I can remember. I didn't know you could still see..."

"You don't have to talk about it."

"It was a long time ago." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "There were complications when I was born. My mother -- they couldn't stop the bleeding. She died within hours. I think my father blamed me for her death. I was raised by nannies, to the point where I hardly ever saw him. As soon as I was old enough, he sent me off to boarding school. Unfortunately, he never considered school vacations. Suddenly summer came, and he had to deal with the child he couldn't stand to look at. At first, I tried to please him. Then I just tried to stay out of sight."

"How old were you?"

"Seven."

"Dear God, Michael." Her heart went out to him.

"I'm sure he would have killed me eventually, either accidentally or intentionally. My grandfather happened to stop by, and he saw the blood on my shirt. I've only seen my father once since."

"I hope it was at his trial."

He shook his head. "It was a different time, Cait. Child abuse wasn't looked at the way it is today. I lived with my grandfather after that. I saw my father at the reading of Gramp's will."

"How old were you when your grandfather died?"

"I was a senior in college, my final semester. He was killed in a car accident. Two weeks later, I was recruited by the Firm. If he hadn't died when he did, I'd probably be working for Boeing or McDonnell Douglas."

"You studied aeronautics?"

He nodded, the motion barely viable in the darkness. "Aeronautical Engineering."

"The Firm recruited you for the Airwolf project?"

"No, the Firm recruited me because I had no close family. I was young, idealistic – and alone. There wasn't anyone to talk any sense into me. That's how they get most of their people. Orphans, runaways, victims of abuse, young people estranged from their families for one reason another. Airwolf didn't come along until much later. When they remembered I had the degree, I was put in charge of the project."

Caitlin wasn't sure what horrified her more, Michael's father, or the Firm's hiring practices. She wondered about Michael's agents. Had he shanghaied them in the same way he had been dragged in? She tried to keep the accusation out of her voice. "Is that where you get your 'angels'? Gabrielle, Marella, Sam?"

"Sam's not one of my recruits, I can't vouch for her history," he answered. "Gabrielle's father was a friend. He worked for the State Department, on assignment in Israel. His wife was there with him. They were killed in a terrorist attack. Gabrielle ran away from foster care. She was living on the streets of New York, eating out of dumpsters when I caught up with her. Marella... her step father raped her. She took off. As it happened, she tried to pick my pocket on the steps of the Capitol. I'd like to believe that they found a better life in the Firm than they would have had on the outside."

They sat in silence for a time, Caitlin tried to decide how she felt about the Firm, and about Michael. He was, she decided, a far more complicated individual than she ever would have guessed.

"Ready to go in?" he asked, finally. "I think the bugs are starting to find us." He swatted ineffectually at something that flew past his head.

"Yeah, let's go." She led the way back into the cabin.

Caitlin woke in the darkness, not sure what had roused her. She laid quietly, alert and listening. Water sloshed the hull, and the boat creaked as the slight current pulled against her moorings. Caitlin had just about decided that she'd been dreaming when she heard it again, a low sound, not quite a moan. For a moment, she thought it might be an animal, somewhere on the shore. She heard movement, and knew it wasn't an animal. "No, please, no." The whispered words were almost too faint to hear.

"Michael?"

There was no answer, and she groped across the table, searching for the book of matches she knew she'd left there. Finding them, she lit one, and in the sudden flare she could see Michael. He curled in the other bunk, his back to her. The match burned uncomfortably close to her fingers, and she flicked it out. Before she could decide what she should do, Michael groaned again.

"Michael? Are you okay?"

There was still no answer. She lit another match, and used it to light their candle.

He writhed in his sleep, as if trying to push away some unseen enemy. Michael called out, the words too low and indistinct for Caitlin to hear most of them. She caught one word. "No."

"Michael? Come on, Michael. Wake up."

He was still oblivious to her voice, and she rose to circle the table, planning to shake him awake. As she reached for his shoulder, she remembered the first night she had ever stayed at String's cabin. Dom had warned her about String's nightmares, and about how he sometimes lashed out if someone tried to wake him. Michael's demons were undoubtedly no less powerful.

Caitlin moved to the side, positioning herself where she would be out of the way if Michael swung at her. Her fingers touched the scarred skin. _No wonder he has nightmares._ She shook him gently. "Michael? Michael, it's over. It's okay. It's me, Caitlin."

He woke, startled, rolling over to face her. "Cait?"

Caitlin slid the candle over, making room to sit on the table. "You were talking in your sleep," she said. Some part of her didn't want to use the word nightmare.

Michael ran his hand over his face and sat up, resting his back against the wall. "Talking?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I imagine it was a lot more than talking. I scared the hell out of you, didn't I?"

She smiled. "Well, I wouldn't go that far, but I was worried." Caitlin suspected she knew the reason for his disturbed sleep. "I'm sorry."

"For waking me? Don't apologize. I'm glad you did."

"No." She chewed her lip. "I stirred up too many old memories today. I shouldn't have."

"You mean my father?"

"Him, Moffet, Red Star. You didn't need to go back there."

"My father is ancient history. He hasn't had the power to hurt me in a very long time. As to Moffet and Red Star – as I told you, I have no memory of it. It's hard to have nightmares about something you don't remember."

Caitlin recalled their first meeting. "Germany?"

He shook his head. "Kruger drugged me into trying to kill a man I detest. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but with the influence of the drugs, it didn't take a great deal of persuasion. There are times when I almost wish that Hawke hadn't put the blanks in my gun." Michael fell silent, staring into space, unmoving. He finally spoke. "Stoner."

Stoner. Caitlin hadn't been with them when the guys had gone to rescue Michael, and she didn't know all the details. She knew only that Stoner had kidnapped and tortured Michael, trying to get the codes that would enable the Fortune Teller device. _The device String had flown against_. She had never put the pieces together before, but now she did, and the picture gnawed at her. If the Fortune Teller had been installed and operational, then Stoner had gotten what he needed from Michael. _Somehow,_ _Stoner had broken him._

"He was willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. Sensory deprivation and a heavy dose of hallucinogenics, to start with. It got worse from there." His words confirmed her thoughts.

Caitlin shuddered. What would it take to break a man who could shrug off everything that had happened to him at Red Star? He interrupted her thoughts. "Go back to sleep, Cait."

"What about you?"

"I think I'll sit up for awhile."

"In that case, I think I will, too."

"Cait, you don't have to--"

"I know. But if I do, then we can both sleep late in the morning."

He chuckled. "You're just looking for an excuse to get up at noon again."

"You have an early appointment?" she echoed his earlier teasing.

He swung his feet to the floor, and went over to the cooler. Michael pulled out a beer. "Want one?"

"Sure, thanks."

He grabbed a second bottle, and twisted off the cap before passing it to her. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He sat back down. "It's horrid."

Caitlin tried a sip, and forced herself to swallow. She grimaced. "How can you drink this stuff?"

He shrugged. "I've had worse. Compared to some of the swill they drink in Central America..."

She took another swallow. The taste wasn't quite as bad when you were prepared for it. "How often do you have them?"

"Central American beers?"

Caitlin heard the humor in his voice, and knew he had misinterpreted her question intentionally. "The nightmares."

He turned serious. "Not as often as I did. The first month... it was every time I closed my eyes. I left on every light in the house. The television, the stereo. Anything to keep from going back into that hell."

"And now?"

"A couple times a month. I still sleep with the television on."

The boat was dark and silent. _ The worse place he could put himself into, and yet he had been willing to come here, alone._ "Have you talked to anyone? Surely the Firm has people --?"

"Shrinks?" He snorted. "Yeah. You're tortured and barely escape with your life, and when you get back they send you in to be 'debriefed'." Michael made it sound like a dirty word. "You tell them what they want to hear, then they pat you on the head like a good puppy and send you back to work."

"In other words, you didn't tell them."

"That their deputy director was terrified of the dark, and woke up screaming every night? Even then, I wasn't that suicidal."

"You're not serious? The Firm wouldn't--?"

"If they'd known what a security risk I was, I never would have made it as far as the parking lot. Truthfully, I'm not sure I would have blamed them. If the Russians had locked me in a closet and turned out the light, I would have given them anything they wanted."

Caitlin shook her head. "That's some bunch you work for, Michael."

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Hawke told me the same thing, once."

They sat in companionable silence for a time, finishing the beers. "Almost dawn," Michael said, finally, gesturing toward the window behind Caitlin.

She turned, and could see the dull glow seeping into the sky. "Now that it's getting to be light out, you think you can get back to sleep?"

"I hope so." He looked tired, but the admission still surprised her.

"Good." She rose from where she had perched on the table, and went back to her makeshift bed. The sky was growing brighter, and she blew out the candle. "If you need... if you need someone to talk to, I'm right here. Now sleep. I don't want you claiming that I only beat you at cards because you were tired."

Michael laid back down, and she listened to his breathing slow, "Cait?" His voice was thick, and she knew he was near sleep. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she answered, and let herself doze.

Michael's eyes blinked open, then quickly closed again as the bright sunlight skewed his vision. _Damn it._ Double vision might be one of the more benign aftereffects of a fractured skull, but it was still aggravating as hell. His doctors had promised him that they would eventually figure out how to fix it. _Yeah._ They'd already done surgery. _Twice. _ There were days when he was convinced they were simply using him as a lab rat. He dug the cloth patch out of his pocket and slipped it on.

He sat up, and looked over to where Caitlin was playing solitaire. "Good morning," she said, the slightest of smiles curling her lips. "How'd you sleep?"

Michael glanced at his watch, confirming what the stiffness settled into his knee had already told him. It wasn't morning, it was nearly one o'clock. "Like a rock." It was longer than he usually slept, and judging from the fact that she had got up and changed without waking him, he'd slept considerably more soundly.

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

He stretched his knee, working out the dull ache. The wooden bench he'd been sleeping on certainly wasn't helping it. He caught the concerned glance that Caitlin threw his way, and decided to ignore it. She was entirely too worried about him already. That attitude was likely to get her killed.

There had been a number of reasons why he had been reluctant to bring Caitlin into Cambodia. If asked, he would have said that she lacked the experience and training that his people had. In truth, at least a part of the reason was more personal. Michael felt he had already pulled Caitlin into too much danger, and he hated the idea of exposing her to even more.

If he hadn't chased after Maria, Hawke and Santini wouldn't have been forced to enlist Caitlin in his rescue. While she certainly suspected even before that, perhaps she wouldn't have managed to confirm Airwolf's existence. With luck, Hawke would never have allowed her near the Firm, and she could have remained blissfully unaware of the government agent who sent them off on missions in the name of the national good.

Michael gathered fresh clothing and went into the head to change. When he came back, there were cups waiting on the table. "Lue brought tea." Caitlin sipped from her cup.

"You didn't have any trouble with him?"

She laughed. "No. He took one glance at this," she raised the engagement ring, "and got out of here just as fast as he could."

He chuckled with her. "It's truly amazing how effective a threat to one's manhood can be." He grabbed a snack and sat down to enjoy the tea. Iced would have been better, but he wasn't about to complain. At least the weather wasn't as hot as the previous day. It was still too warm to be comfortable, but somewhat less oppressive than it had been. "So, are we playing poker today?"

Caitlin grinned. "I don't know. Do you feel like getting beat?"

"You can try." Despite the bravado, he knew she might very well best him. It surprised him how good she was. Even with the Firm's training in picking up on non-verbal cues, it was nearly impossible for him to tell when she was bluffing. Upon further reflection, perhaps he should have expected it. Caitlin had found a creative but effective way of dealing with the security guard at LAX. She had reacted more quickly than some of his own agents might have responded in a similar situation. The kiss had been unexpected, but resourceful. It engendered a newfound respect for her.

Caitlin had changed since that trip into Germany. It was hard to believe it had only been two years. She had seemed so young then. Airwolf had stripped away much of her innocence. Whatever was left would be gone by the time they got home. _That was a damned shame._

He knew what he was going to have to do to her, and he hated it. Caitlin would know everything before she got off the boat, she had to. She was someone who wouldn't think twice before doing something noble – and stupid. She had to know that some things and some people weren't worth that sort of sacrifice.

Thankfully, it wasn't time for that. Not today. He moved his cup out of the way. "So, are you going to deal?"

Time passed. Days blurred together as they moved slowly down the river, closer and closer to their goal. They played cards, and when it got too dark, they talked, sleeping as the first light of dawn touched the sky.

Caitlin sat quietly, watching Michael play solitaire. He had already told her that this would be their last night on the boat. As they neared the camp, Lue would drop anchor, and they would wait until it was nearly dawn. Just before sunrise, he would bring the boat to shore to drop them off. They would be on their own until Marella's Huey arrived.

She shivered, despite the heat. They had gone over the plan, and the equipment. Michael had stripped and cleaned the rifles, and had double-checked everything else. They were ready, at least as ready as they would ever be.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, she didn't realize that Michael had put the cards away until she looked up . He sat gazing out of the window into the setting sun, unusually pensive. "A penny for your thoughts," she offered.

He didn't turn. "Nelson Fitzpatrick."

"Who?"

"Major Nelson Fitzpatrick. Fitzi, to those who knew him." Michael rose, and fetched water from the cooler. He raised the bottle, silently asking if Caitlin wanted one.

"No thanks."

He returned, and sat back down. "Have you ever seen the movie 'Apocalypse Now'?"

"Yeah." Since going to work at Santini Air, Caitlin had read about Viet Nam, and had watched every movie she found about the war. She wanted to understand String, and what he had gone through. "It was taken from a story by Joseph Conrad, wasn't it?"

"That's what Coppola claimed. I suppose it was, to an extent." He turned sideways, looking out the window, and sipped from the bottle. "I don't know how Coppola found out about it, but Kurtz was loosely based on Fitzi. Fitzi went renegade. He never committed a quarter of the atrocities that Kurtz was credited with in the movie, but he did go into Cambodia and start his own war against Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge."

There was a connection. She was certain of it. "You knew him?"

"We went to college together."

_And here they were, in Cambodia, on the Mekong._ No wonder Michael was thinking of his old acquaintance. "The Army killed him?"

Michael shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Assassination is outside of role of the military, even when it is one of their own. The government has another organization that takes care of such matters."

_The Firm_. Caitlin started to put the pieces together. "You tried to intervene?"

"No." He looked up sharply, meeting her gaze. "I'm the one they sent here to kill him."

Caitlin sat in stunned silence. Michael might be many things, but she never would have guessed that he might be a killer, at least not by that definition of the word. As she stared at him, he broke the eye contact and turned back toward the window.

It was growing dark. Caitlin lit a candle, shoving it towards the center of the table. She tried to find something to say, but she wasn't even sure what she was feeling. Silence stretched uncomfortably, broken when Lue came to the door with their dinner.

She watched while Michael talked to him. Her mind churned, logic conflicting with emotion. Logic told her that what Michael had done might have kept America from becoming embroiled in another conflict they couldn't possibly win. Emotion wasn't so sure. Assassination, whether sanctioned or not, was not so far removed from murder.

Who was this man she was about to follow into the jungle? A week ago, she had thought that she knew him. Now, she found she didn't really know him at all. She needed to understand what he had done, and why.

Lue departed, and Michael brought the food to the table. Caitlin picked at it, knowing she should eat, but no longer hungry. "Michael, I --" She wasn't sure how to continue.

"When I joined the Firm, they found out I was an expert marksman. They put me in the Zebra Squad. I was an assassin, Cait. What the mob would call a hit man. It just happened that I worked for the government and not the Mafia. I did it for almost five years, by the end of which, I was running the squad. I finally got out. I thought it was over. Three years later, they asked me to make one more kill." His voice was low, barely audible over the dull rumble of the boat's diesel. "Fitzi was no fool. He knew the Firm was after him, he moved his camp every other day. The first two men they sent never found him. That's when they came to me. I knew him well enough to have a pretty good idea how he thought. To anticipate what he would do and where he would go." He paused to finish the bottle of water.

"How accurate was the movie?" _Willard_, she remembered. _Captain Willard_. The officer they had sent after Kurtz had been almost as insane as his quarry.

"Not particularly. We took a PT boat up the river. The similarity essentially ended there. I imagine someone heard a rumor about Fitzi, and built the story around it. When I finally found him, his little group of guerrillas had a local man and his family tied to stakes. The wife was pregnant, and there were three small children. Fitzi claimed the man was a Khmer Rouge spy. He was about to shoot all of them as an example. I ended it, then and there. When I cut his family loose, Neang Choi told me that he was forever in my debt. I didn't think that meant much at the time."

"Choi?" Caitlin was certain she recognized the name.

"The reason we're here. Because of St. John, I've kept close tabs on this part of the world. I recognized Choi's name and photograph from a newspaper article about a year ago. It seems that he has risen to a position of some influence. Fitzi was right about one thing. Choi was with the Khmer Rouge. He still has connections. It took a bit of doing, but I got in touch of him and called in that debt. Choi came up with information on the camp, and he provided the boat and supplies. I figure we're even."

Caitlin rolled it around in her mind. Michael was an assassin, but in this case, the man he killed had been about to shoot an innocent woman and her children. There were too many factors here, too many angles. There was no simple answer, no clear cut wrong or right.

Michael's thoughts seemed to follow hers. "You know the worst part of it? Looking back, I'm not so sure Fitzi was wrong. If I had it to do over again, I might have stayed and fought beside him. His main target was the Khmer Rouge. If he had gotten to Pol Pot, perhaps the slaughter that happened here could have been avoided."

"He was killing innocents."

"So were they. And they killed a hell of a lot more than Fitzi ever did." He sighed deeply. "I want you to promise me something. If the rescue doesn't go according to plan tomorrow, if things start going bad... don't be a hero, Cait. Get your ass out and don't look back."

"Michael, I can't promise..."

"Caitlin, this isn't your world. Don't take this wrong, but you don't belong here. That's why I didn't want you to come. It never had anything to do with doubting your capabilities. So promise me that you're not going to try to do something noble and get yourself killed."

She finally nodded. "All right. If that's what you want." Caitlin felt the boat's movements slowing. Lue was shutting the diesel down. They would spend most of the night here. She finished her meal. _With luck, tomorrow she would be eating her dinner at the base in Manila. _

Michael collected the dishes. "You want to go out for awhile? Lue said it would be safe."

For a moment, she considered it. "No, I don't think so. I think I'll catch a nap. Dawn is going to come early." What she didn't say was that she really wasn't prepared to spend the evening chatting with him. Not now.

"I'll take these out, then. I'll be back shortly, I need to speak with our skipper for a minute, anyhow."

"Michael." She stopped him just as he was about to step outside. "Does String know?"

He looked back over his shoulder and hesitated. "Yeah." Michael answered, finally. "He knows. That's how we met. He's the one who flew me in."

Michael stood on the deck, drawing at a cigarette he had bummed off Lue. Other than the occasional cigar, he hadn't smoked in over twenty years, but tonight he needed that presence in his hand, the kick of the nicotine. He would have been pacing, but there wasn't room on the crowded deck. Instead, he stared at the moon, the shifting reflections that danced on the water. He could just make out the shoreline, and the hulking darkness of the trees beyond it.

With a flick of his wrist, Michael tossed the butt into the water. He checked his watch. _Almost midnight. _ Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved the wireless transmitter. He slipped the receiver over his ear and keyed the device. The coded answer came minutes later, and Michael sighed in relief. He had never doubted that Marella would be in position, but there was always that chance that something unexpected could go wrong. The transmitter went back into his pocket.

He rubbed his hands together, impatient, eager for the dawn that was only a few hours away. Michael knew he wouldn't sleep; there was no reason to even try. Despite all his years in the field, he had never been able to rest the night before a mission. Finally, reluctantly, Michael went inside, moving with the easy silence of one long accustomed to stealthy work. Caitlin had dozed off. For a time, he sat on the makeshift bunk and watched her sleep, the even rise and fall of her chest.

She shouldn't be here. Caitlin was too innocent and too naive to be exposed to the violence that waited for them at the Khmer Rouge camp. He knew what killing would do to her, the effect it would have on her. She would never be quite the same person again. If only Marella had been able to get away. _But she couldn't, not without alerting Zeus and the committee_. It was the only solution, and he knew it. He didn't have to like it.

Michael slipped a set of jungle fatigues from his backpack and stepped into the john. He stripped in the darkness, changing quickly. More by feeling than by sight, he tucked the cuffs of his pants down into the paratrooper boots he wore and laced them, pulling the strings tight.

The simple actions brought a flood of memories. Other than the ill-fated trip into Germany, it had been a long time since he had done fieldwork. He had thought that part of his life was over, especially after Red Star. As far as the Firm was considered, it was. Michael went back into the main room and raised the cover of the bench, quietly removing equipment He cinched a web belt around his waist and fastened the bandoleer over his shoulder, then checked his watch again.. It was time to wake Caitlin. "Cait?" he called, softly.

"Hmm?" It took her a moment to focus, wiping sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Is it dawn already?"

"Just about."

She rubbed hard at the bridge of her nose. "What I wouldn't give for a cup of hot coffee."

"Soon. Cait," he promised. "As soon as we get those prisoners back to Manila."

She pulled clothing from her pack, and went in to change. A few minutes later, she returned, dressed in the fatigues Marella had picked up for her. "I feel like I'm in the Army," Caitlin complained, as she pulled her hair back, rubber banding it into a loose pony tail.

"You look it. Oh. One more thing. Come here for a minute." As she complied, Michael reached into his bag for a small kit. He opened it, and ran his finger though the tin, then reached for Caitlin's temple.

"What are you doing? What is that?" She started to pull away.

"Camouflage makeup. What they can't see doesn't make a very good target. I'm making you into a part of the jungle." He smeared a streak of dark green across her cheek, then followed with rough patches of green, brown and black until her fair skin was covered. Finished, he then turned his attention to his own face, laying a similar mosaic of color. "How do I look?"

She snickered. "You look like a tree."

"Just the look I was going for," he answered lightly. They both felt the diesel engine rattle to life beneath them. "Sounds like we're getting underway." He looked into her eyes, turning serious. "Are you ready for this, Cait?"

Caitlin took a deep breath before answering. "As ready as I'll ever be. I just want to get it over with."

Michael felt much the same way himself. Anticipation mixed with dread; the chance of finding Stringfellow's missing brother tempered by the realization of how difficult and dangerous it would be to free him and the other prisoners. Michael retrieved the rifles from their hiding place, passing one to Caitlin and keeping the second for himself. Grenades clipped onto to their belts, ammo magazines to the bandoleers. Extra ammunition went into pockets. Finished distributing the weapons, he reached into the cooler. Caitlin slung her M-16 over her shoulder and took the bottle of water he offered, sitting on the edge of the bunk to drink it.

Lue stuck his head in the door. "Ten minutes," he said, in Vietnamese, before going back out.

Michael relayed the information in English. She nodded.

The boat started to slow, and Caitlin looked up at him. He could see the fear in her eyes, despite her attempts to hide it. He stood up. "Let's do it."

She rose to join him at the door, and he stopped her as she reached to open it. "You remember what I said? No heroics?"

"No heroics," she agreed. "We're just going to get in there, get the job done, and go home. With St. John," she added, hope filling her voice.

"With St. John," Michael echoed, stepping out of the door.

Michael and Caitlin crouched just off the trail, hidden from any chance discovery by the dense foliage. After dropping them off at the makeshift dock, Lue had departed quickly into the night, his ramshackle boat motoring downstream with it's other cargo.

They would wait for the first rays of dawn to pierce the heavy tree cover before advancing toward the camp. It was too dangerous to move in the darkness. Caitlin shivered despite the warm, moist air. Michael had lectured her repeatedly about the Cambodian obsession with land mines, reminding her of what even the smallest could do to human flesh. She didn't want to think about that, or about the near certainty that their path would be trapped.

Caitlin took a long, deep breath, fighting to steady her nerves. She searched for something to distract her thoughts from where they were headed, and happened to notice the ring still on her finger. Cubic Zirconia or not, it was too beautiful to wear into combat. She slipped the ring off, and shoved it deep into a pocket.

_Michael was right. She didn't belong here._ Flying Airwolf with String and Dominic might be no safer, but it was a decidedly different sort of danger. The cold, sterile cockpit seemed a lifetime removed from this dank, snake infested jungle and the reek of rotting vegetation. Worse, the man beside her was an unknown, not the familiar, brooding, Stringfellow Hawke.

She still wasn't sure how she felt about Michael. He was charismatic, intelligent, and over the course of the week spent together in the cramped quarters, she had come to actively enjoy his company. Then, he had told her about his past. On the surface, it went against everything that she had ever believed in. But, were the things Michael had done really so different from the things String had done, the things she herself had done? Did it matter that the spy had killed specific targets, one on one, while she and String simply swooped in with Airwolf like avenging angels, destroying whatever might be in their path?

There was a soft touch on her knee, and she startled, nearly jumping out of her skin. "Let's go." Michael barely breathed the words as he rose to his feet. Caitlin nodded agreement, not trusting her voice.

"Stay behind me," he whispered, stepping back onto the trail and heading away from the river.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting flickering, elusive shadows that raised the hair on the back of her neck. The M-16 was a comforting weight in her hands, and every few steps, she swung it around, searching the jungle behind them for any sign that they were being followed. Except for the constant chatter of the birds and the rustle of their own passage, everything seemed quiet. She hurried to keep pace with Michael.

Marella had been right. Michael might have a limp, but when he needed to, he could move more quickly and quietly than she could.

Abruptly, he came to a halt, holding up a hand to warn her. She traced the line of his pointing finger, and after a moment her eyes found the fishing line stretched from tree to tree across the trail, just high enough that an animal's passage wouldn't disturb it.. Caitlin followed the line down to the base of the tree, to something metallic just barely visible beneath the leaves and dirt. _ Shit._ She knew that alone, she never would have noticed the trap, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out in horror.

Micheal closed his hand protectively around her wrist, and led her around the hazard. He hesitated before releasing her arm. "Are you okay?" Caitlin knew he could sense her fear, knew that he was judging her, debating how much more she could take.

She willed her hands to stop shaking. She would get through this, she had to. Michael was depending on her. String was depending on her, too, whether he knew it or not. She nodded. "I'm all right."

They started down the trail again, a bit more slowly this time. A hundred yards further, there was another booby trap. They avoided it easily. Caitlin suspected that they were getting close, and her suspicions were confirmed when she heard the faint echo of harsh laughter coming from somewhere ahead of them. Michael heard it too, and he slowed their pace even more, making sure that they stayed hidden in the trees as they crept closer.

The camp was as Michael's contact had described. What had begun as a small natural clearing had been cut deeper into the heart of the jungle; there was a single guard tower, several outbuildings. Tall grasses and vines threatened to overrun a planted area where some sort of crops were growing, perhaps opium poppies. Only two men were in sight: the lone guard in the tower was leaning over the railing, talking with another below. Michael gestured, and she looked at the buildings in more detail. The one he had pointed out had slats nailed across the windows, and chicken wire stretched over that. She nodded her understanding. That was where they would find the prisoners. Michael glanced at his watch, then showed it to her. They were early. There was nearly half an hour until Marella was scheduled to arrive with the Huey.

The minutes dragged. Michael checked his watch again, then nodded. "It's time. All hell is going to break loose as soon as we fire," he reminded her, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "I'll take the tower, you take his friend." Bringing the rifle up, the agent wrapped the sling of his weapon around his left hand, steadying it. He leaned his shoulder against a tree, taking careful aim. He looked over at her, waiting.

Caitlin hesitated. _This wasn't her, this wasn't how she fought. She didn't want to do this, not this way._ For just a moment, she could see the pictures Michael had shown her. The file photographs of the dead. The skulls stacked like cord wood. These were the people who had committed those acts. She raised her weapon. The man on the ground was closer, and she had a better angle. It would be an easier shot than the one Michael had to make. _God forgive me_, she thought. "Ready."

"On three. One... two... three." Two shots rang out, loud against the quiet backdrop. The guards both dropped, the one in the tower lurching over the railing to fall beside his compatriot. For just a moment, there was dead silence. Even the birds had stilled. Then came a jumble of confused shouts from the camp's barracks, as the doors flew open. Half dressed Khmer Rouge commandos rushed out, scattering into the undergrowth.

Michael turned the rifle to full automatic and sprayed the area near the barracks. Men dove for cover. "Go!" he shouted to Caitlin, and she sprinted for the building where the captives were being held.

She stayed low, trying to present a small target to any of the guerrillas who might brave Michael's assault to fire on her. As she reached the door, she heard grenades exploding behind her. The door was locked with a simple padlock and a rusty hasp. She smashed it loose with the butt of the rifle. A hard kick knocked the door open, and she dropped to the floor, rolling, just in case they had been wrong about the building's inhabitants.

The men stared at her blankly, creeping away from her. "Come on, we're here to take you back to the States!" There was no response, except perhaps more fear radiating from them. Michael's words came back to her. These men had been brainwashed, and then they had been taken prisoner again. What would that do to their minds, and what did she have to do to get through to them? Men who had undoubtedly given up any hope of rescue. Hating herself, she waved the rifle at them. "Move, now!" she bellowed, and was relieved as they climbed to their feet. As they emerged into the light, she looked at the faces, searching for St. John.. Too short. Spanish. Dark hair. Too tall. Black. Short. The last man was about the right height and coloring, but she was certain it wasn't St. John. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Are there any other prisoners?"

He shook his head, trying to pull away. "No. No more."

"Hawke. St. John Hawke. He's not here?"

"Gone. Long time ago."

_Damn it! _ So close! "Where?"

"Don't know."

Caitlin could tell from the look in the man's eyes that he didn't have any more to tell her, and she released him. He stumbled into the tall grass with the others, and she followed. Michael joined them seconds later, diving into the slight cover of the grass as he slammed another magazine into his M-16. Marella was descending toward them, but couldn't get as close as they had hoped because of the positioning of the tower and the few still standing trees that interspersed the buildings.

"Get them on board. I'll cover you." Michael rose to a crouch and fired off another volley of suppressive fire, keeping the commandos occupied.

"Go! Go! Get in the Huey!" Caitlin commanded, shoving the stragglers in the direction of the helicopter. She ran after them, ducking instinctively as she neared the turning blades of the helicopter. Marella hovered inches off the ground, and the men scrambled in through the open door. She pushed the last man aboard and pulled herself in after him. One quick glance assured her that they were all crawling into seats, strapping themselves in. She turned to see where Michael was.

He had hurled another grenade at the opposition, and was up and sprinting toward the waiting Huey. Caitlin heard the crack of the rifle even over the whine of the turning blades, and she saw him stumble, grabbing for his ribs. Almost in slow motion, his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. Another sharp crack, and a dark stain erupted from his right shoulder. She started toward the doorway, and she saw him mouth the word. "_No!_"

Caitlin jumped from the chopper, spinning to spray the brush with a clip full of ammunition. As she ran, she pulled that magazine free and jammed another into the weapon. She emptied it in the same direction, then slung the rifle as she reached Michael. "Get out of here," he gasped, trying to push her away.

"Not without you. Come on, you've got to move. I can't carry you." She pulled him to his feet, wrapping his left arm around her neck. He grunted with pain, but started toward the chopper.

The short distance to the waiting helicopter seemed more like a marathon. By the time they reached it, Michael was nearly out on his feet. Caitlin dragged him inside with a strength she didn't know she had, climbing in herself as Marella lifted them skyward. Small arms fire rattled ineffectively off the metal below, echoing loud in the cabin. Caitlin grabbed for the waiting radio headset, pulling it on with one hand as she rolled him onto his back.

His shirt was soaked with blood, and she tore it open to reveal his injuries, not bothering with the buttons. It was even worse than she had feared. Blood poured from his shoulder, and there was a second wound to his chest, angled between his ribs. "Marella!" she screamed into the voice activated microphone. "Marella, you've got to get us on the ground. Michael's been hit, bad." She scrambled for the first aid kit, digging out a thick wad of gauze bandage and clamping it to his shoulder.

"I can't. We can't set down until we clear Cambodia." The woman's voice came back over the radio, calm and tightly controlled.

He was wheezing, gasping for breath. Caitlin's fingers went to his throat, searching for a pulse. She found it, horribly weak. "Marella, I need you!" Michael's assistant was the one finishing medical school. She would know what to do. "You've got to land, now, damn it! I think he's dying."

"Cait, I can't. If I land, we all die. Tell me what's going on. I'll help you. Tell me what you see."

She forced down the rising panic that threatened to engulf her. "He was hit twice. The wound in his shoulder is bleeding like a stuck pig. I'm holding a bandage on it and that's helping some. The other one hit him a few inches lower, in the ribs.. His breathing is real bad, like he can't get his breath. I'm not sure if he's conscious or not."

"Get someone to take over holding that bandage. Make sure it stays tight. If it soaks through add another, don't try to change it."

Caitlin looked up at the men they had rescued. She pointed to one who had most resembled St. John. "You, come here." She shouted to be heard above the sound of the engine.

Reluctantly, the man unbelted himself from the seat and lowered himself to the deck beside her. Cait stacked another dressing on top of the first. "Hold this. Don't let go, no matter what." He nodded, taking over for her.

"Okay, Marella. What now?"

"How's his breathing?"

"Even worse. Marella --"

The agent cut her off. "Look at the veins in his neck. How do they look?"

She leaned forward. "Like they're bulging."

"Put your hands on his chest, the injured side. What's it feel like?"

He moaned as she touched him, and she gritted her teeth, hating to cause him any more pain. "Soft. Spongy."

"That's what I was afraid of. Cait, there's a medical bag under the seats. Get it."

Caitlin scrambled for the black bag, retrieving it. "Got it."

"He's bleeding internally into his chest. The bullet ripped a hole in his lung. It collapsed, and now there's blood trapped between the lung and his ribs. It's pressing against his heart and the other lung. You've got to get it out of there or it will kill him."

"What? How?"

"Open the bag. Near the top there is a clear plastic package with a large bore needle in it. You're going to stick it in between his ribs and release the trapped blood."

_No. Please, no. _"I can't! Marella, I'm no doctor. I can't do this!"

"You have to. You're right, he's dying." For the first time, there was emotion in the agent's voice. "He won't live long enough to make it to Thailand. If you release the pressure in his chest he's got a chance."

Caitlin closed her eyes for moment, biting down on her lip. She reached for the medical bag. "All right. Tell me exactly what to do. Step by step."

His breathing was still ragged, but at least Michael was breathing, and not gasping for air. Caitlin tucked the emergency blanket around him and relieved the frightened prisoner who had been holding the bandages to his shoulder, taking over the job herself. The bleeding had nearly stopped, and she had taped an occlusive dressing over the other wound. There was little more that she could do.

Michael was horribly pale, and she could feel him tremble; she didn't need Marella's expertise to know that he was going into shock. While it might be oppressively hot on the floor of the jungle, as they gained altitude, the temperature fell. Their distance from the ground combined with the wash from the rotor blades to bring a sharp bite to the air. Caitlin slid closer. Laying down beside him, she wrapped herself around him as a shield from the wind. She prayed that Marella could get them out of Cambodia in time. "Don't you die on me, Michael," she whispered, her lips close to his ear. "Damn you, don't you die on me."

The flight seemed to stretch into eternity. By the time they reached the makeshift airstrip just across the border into Thailand, Caitlin's fingers were cramping from tension. At first, she didn't realize they had landed; Marella had to coax her away from Michael. Knowing he was finally in more capable hands than her own, Caitlin raced to the waiting plane and did a quick preflight. Marella had flown the plane in, and the plan had been for her to also fly them back out, but the agent was the one with the medical training. Locals that Marella had enlisted helped transfer Michael and the men into the back of the aircraft.

Afterwards, Caitlin had no real memory of having flown the Citation to the American military base in Manila. There were jumbled, surreal images of Marella hanging an IV bottle and hovering over her patient. Clearances granted and headings taken. An ambulance waiting to take them directly from the runway to the base hospital when they landed.

Marella went into surgery with Michael, leaving Caitlin alone to pace the waiting room. An Army officer came in, and she explained in halting, confused words about the rescue of the prisoners. He promised her that they would be taken care of. Someone else, a woman, came and brought her clean clothing, leading her to a shower room that she could use. As she began to strip, she caught her reflected image in the mirror.

She didn't remember crying, but tears had streaked the camouflage makeup that Michael had applied to her cheeks that morning. Drying blood caked her sleeves, coated her hands. Reeling away from the gruesome reflection she ripped off her clothes, shoving them deep in the trash bin. Naked, she reached in to turn on the shower.

Abruptly, Caitlin remembered the ring. She dragged the fatigues back out of the trash, rummaging through the pockets until she found it. She slipped it on her finger, trying not to see the dried blood.

Caitlin stepped into the shower, turning the water up as hot as she could stand. Lather swirled pink as it collected at her feet and ran down the drain. She could smell the metallic tang of the blood, she was certain she could even taste it. Slowly, she let her back slide down the shower wall until she was sitting on the floor of the enclosure, her face cradled in her hands. He had lost too much blood, far too much, and she knew how easily blood loss could kill. The carefully built wall around her feelings crumbled, and the tangled emotions Caitlin had fought so hard to contain over the course of the preceding week rolled over her with the force of a tidal wave. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and became great, wracking sobs.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, head down, her arms wrapped around her knees, water beating down on her back. Eventually, no more tears would come, and she rose and finished her shower, soaping away the last traces of the jungle from her body. It would take longer to banish them from her mind. She toweled off and dressed quickly, putting on the set of scrubs the nurse had loaned her. Caitlin blew her nose, and examined her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy, but otherwise, she would do. Raking her hair out with her fingers, she went back out into the waiting room.

It was a long wait. A nurse's aide offered her coffee, which she gratefully accepted. Her stomach was too unsettled to eat, instead she paced, sure that she would wear a hole through the carpet. Eventually she perched on one of the chairs, restlessly thumbing one of the hospital magazines before tossing it back onto the stack. It was hours later when Marella finally emerged, untying the surgical mask as she stepped through the swinging doors. Caitlin jumped to her feet. "How is he?"

"Lucky." Marella smiled tiredly, crossing to take a seat. Caitlin sat down beside her. "As you know, his lung collapsed. That bullet went on to lodge in his shoulder blade. The other one shattered his collarbone and nicked a vein. Either one of those wounds could have killed him, but barring complications, he'll make it. You saved his life."

"Thank God." Caitlin saw that the agent was exhausted. She could only imagine how helpless Marella must have felt, stuck at the controls of the Huey and unable to come to Michael's aid. "What about you? Are you okay?"

"I should be asking you that," she observed, reaching out to give Caitlin's arm a reassuring touch. "Yeah, I'm fine." She looked up, searching for a clock. "It will be at least an hour before he's out of recovery. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Shall we go see if this place has a cafeteria?"

"That sounds good."

A nurse at the desk directed them to the staff cafeteria, and they both selected sandwiches and coffee, then sat down at one of the small tables. Caitlin hung her head. "We didn't get St. John. One of the men told me he'd been moved some time ago."

"I know. At least you did rescue the others."

"An officer came by shortly after you went in with Michael. I tried to explain to him about the prisoners, but I'm not exactly sure what I told him," Caitlin admitted, a bit sheepishly.

"Doesn't matter. We'll clean it up however we need to later. The important thing is that they're safe, that you and Michael are safe." The agent sipped her coffee. "Thanks."

Caitlin looked up from her sandwich. "For what?"

"For being there when I couldn't. For risking your life for him. I saw him go down, and there was nothing I could do."

"He would have done the same for me." Caitlin hesitated, considering. She had always wondered exactly what the relationship between the two of them was. At one time, she had thought it might be romantic, but the more she learned, the more she doubted it. "Michael means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

Marella met her eyes, and raised one eyebrow, a slight smile crossing her lips. "We're not a couple, if that's what you're asking." She turned serious, letting out a sigh as she folded her hands around her coffee cup. "My step-father --"

Caitlin interrupted her. "Michael told me how you met. I hope that you don't mind."

The agent shook her head. "It's not a secret. Michael... Michael was more of a father to me than either my own father or my step-father ever was. He found me a safe place to stay, and the Firm put me through school."

Caitlin reached out and covered Marella's hand with her own. "I'm sorry. What your step father did... inexcusable."

"Agreed."

Curious, but afraid she was prying, Caitlin tried to gauge the other woman's mood. "Was your he ever arrested?"

Marella shook her head. "No. There was no real evidence. He made sure of that. But, oddly enough, shortly after Michael rescued me from the streets, someone blew Marvin away." A smile crossed her lips. "They never did find out who did it." The agent paused, looking across the table at her companion in a way that left Caitlin with the vaguely uncomfortable feeling she was being judged. She gave a slight, unconscious nod, as if a decision had been made. "Caitlin, can I ask you a favor?"

"Certainly."

"I need to see about making the arrangements to have Michael medevaced back to the States, and I want to check on the men you liberated. I don't intend to give the Firm an opportunity to pull something like they did the last time. Would you mind staying with Michael? He detests hospitals, and I don't like the idea of him waking up without a familiar face around. He can be downright impossible. Normally, I'd stay with him, but..."

"I'd be glad to," Caitlin interrupted her. She had wanted to see him, to make sure he was really all right. "Will they let me in? I'm not a doctor, and it's not like I'm family."

Marella hesitated. "Michael – Michael doesn't have family, at least none that he'd want --"

"I know." She saw the surprise on the other woman's face. "I saw what his father did to him."

"Then you know that we're the closest thing to family that he has." The agent glanced down at Caitlin's hand, then reached out to touch the ring. "I'll clear it with the doctors. Leave the ring on. We'll let them think that you are his fiancée."

Caitlin sat with her knees pulled up to her chin, arms wrapped around them. The coffee beside her had long grown cold. She closed her eyes, listening to the rhythmic sounds of the machines.

_Beep...beep...beep..._

Her mind counted the seconds between each sound, as her breathing matched itself to the beat of the respirator.

She looked up as she heard the door open behind her.

_Marella. _ The agent's suit was uncharacteristically wrinkled, her coffee hued complexion pale. Her makeup was mussed, and if the crumpled tissue clenched in her fist was any indication, she had been crying. Marella stood silently for a time, her gaze locked on the figure lying on the hospital bed.

She reached out, touching Caitlin's arm. "Would you come out to the lounge for a minute?"

"Yeah, sure." Stiffly, Caitlin rose from the chair and leaned over the bed. He was unconscious, heavily sedated, in all likelihood totally oblivious to anything going on around him. She wasn't willing to take that chance. "I'll be right back, Michael."

She followed Marella out the door to the ICU waiting room, only a few doors away. The agent's demeanor wasn't encouraging. Caitlin dreaded the question, but asked it anyway. "He's getting worse?"

Marella shook her head. "No. He's no better, but he's no worse, either."

Caitlin released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Thank God for that much." The infection had set in suddenly during the medevac flight home from Manila. _Sepsis, the doctor had told them. _ Michael's temperature had spiked, and they had diverted to the nearest hospital. That was how she had ended up in Hawaii, watching him get sicker and sicker as one by one his organs shut down. The machines were already breathing for him; if the antibiotics didn't kick in soon they would have to start dialysis.

Marella's hand on her arm led her to a chair and silently urged her to sit. She did, and Marella sat down beside her. The agent drew a deep breath. "This isn't about Michael."

Caitlin found herself growing impatient. She wanted – _needed _– to be back in the ICU. "What, then?"

Marella hesitated, looking down at her hands. "I've been in touch with Sam, back at Thousand Oaks."

Samantha, Michael's assistant. "And?"

The agent took a deep breath. "There's been an accident at Santini Air."

"An accident?" Her first thought was a stunt gone wrong. "What happened? Was anyone hurt?"

"There was an explosion. I don't have all the details yet, but it appears to have been a fuel leak. Dominic... I'm sorry, Cait. Dominic was killed instantly."

Caitlin sat for several moments in stunned silence. _There's more_. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she was certain of it. "What about String?"

Marella shook her head. "He survived the initial blast. He lived long enough to see his brother again."

"St. John? But we didn't...?"

"It's a long story. Michael's replacement – a man named Locke -- and some Air Force pilot he enlisted went into Burma with Jo Santini and got him out. St. John is back, he's safe." Her voice grew quiet. "He took his brother home to die."

Caitlin sagged into the chair. String and Dom both gone. Michael fighting for his life. She'd been gone just over a week. _ It had only been a matter of days, but somehow the world had fallen apart._

"I've booked you a flight back to LAX. Sam is going to come out and sit with Michael. I'll stay until she gets here."

It was a long moment before Caitlin answered. "No. I'm staying here."

"Are you sure? Michael would understand."

"No," Caitlin repeated. "If they're both gone, there's nothing I can do for them. I need to be here." Here, there was still something she could do. She stood, planning to go back to the ICU.

Marella rose as well. "He's tough, Cait. If anyone can survive this..."

"I know." She had seen the proof of just how tough and resilient he was.

The agent stopped her. "You're sure? You don't want me to get you a flight?"

Caitlin nodded. "I'm sure. I need to get back to Michael."

She stopped outside the door to his room, looking in through the window. Unconscious, surrounded by machines, connected to the IVs and and monitors, he was neither the dapper agent nor the commando assassin she had followed into Cambodia. He was... _human._

Caitlin slipped into the room, crossed to his bedside. "I'm back," she told him, reaching out to touch his forehead. Too warm, but maybe not quite as hot as it had been. She remembered the nights on the river. _Darkness and silence were at the heart of Michael's nightmares._ Darkness wasn't an issue in the ICU. She pulled the chair closer to the bed. "Let me tell you about my sister, Marie," she began. "She's two years older than I am, and she got married last year. Big event. My folks had the ceremony outdoors..."

She had lost all track of time. It might have been only three days, or as long as a week. She absently rubbed at her neck, stiff from long nights spent dozing in the chair. The staff had tried to make her comfortable, offering her a cot in the lounge, but she had been reluctant to stray. Instead, she had only slipped away for a few minutes at a time, just long enough grab something to eat or to shower.

Caitlin felt as much as heard the stirring from the bed. A moment later his eye flicked open, a beautiful deep blue. His gaze slowly focused on her with a clarity she hadn't seen since before he'd been shot. "Cait?"

She rose and leaned over him. "Hi there. How you feeling?"

"Like I was hit by a train." Michael's voice was hoarse. Caitlin knew that his throat must still be raw from the tubes that had been forced down it. "Damn, I must be getting old. Red Star didn't take this much out of me."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Yeah. Bastard shot me."

"It was a lot more than that. On the medevac flight back from Manila you developed a raging infection. By the time we could get you to a hospital, you were spiking a horrendous fever and your entire system was trying to shut down. The doctors went through every antibiotic they had before they finally found something that would stop it." Instinctively, she brought the back of her hand to his forehead, confirming for herself what the nurses had told her. "Your temperature is almost back to normal. You should start to feel better before long."

"I suppose that beats getting old. How long have I been out of it?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "I've kind of lost track of things myself. I think it's been about five days." Caitlin bit her lip. "Do you remember any of it?"

Michael closed his eyes. "I remember someone cursing at me and telling me that I'd better not die on them. After that it starts to blur." His eyes blinked open, and grimaced. "I called you Maria, didn't I?"

"A couple times." Delirious from the fever and the drugs they were pumping into him, Michael had thought she was his East German lover. He had begged her to defect. "It's all right, Michael. You called me Marella, too. I think at one point you thought I was Zeus."

He chuckled at that, wincing as the motion shot pain across his chest. Michael turned serious. "I thought I said no heroics?"

"I wasn't being heroic. I just did what you would have done if I'd been the one hit."

"You shouldn't have done it, but thank you." Michael hesitated. "We got the prisoners out?"

"Yeah. They're safe, and being taken care of."

"But not St. John?"

"No, I'm afraid not." No. _They_ hadn't rescued St. John.

"Does his brother know?"

The question hit her like a fist. She wouldn't lie to Michael, and yet she couldn't tell him the truth, either. Not yet, not until he had been allowed some time to recover. Caitlin fought to keep the quiver out of her voice, knowing he would hear it. "I haven't talked to anyone at the hanger. As far as anyone knows, I'm still in Texas." That much was true. Caitlin prayed that he wouldn't ask any more.

"Just as well. I don't quite feel up to explaining to Hawke why I dragged you into a combat zone." Her prayers were answered as he changed the topic. "Where's Marella?"

"Overseeing the return of the prisoners. I have a number where she can be reached if you need her."

"So she left you here to put up with me?" There was just a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Something like that," Caitlin answered warmly.

"You don't have to stay."

"I'd like to, unless you want me to leave?"

"No. Stay. Please. I hate hospitals. I certainly don't mind having someone around to help take my mind off of where I am." He reached across his chest with his left hand, tentatively exploring the thick bandages. "How bad was I hit?"

It was the other question she had been dreading. She had hoped that he would remember what the doctors had told him the morning after his surgery, but he didn't, and now he would have to face that realization again. "The first shot tore a hole in your lung, they had to crack your chest..."

"Cait," he cut her off, the sharp edge of panic rising in his voice, "I can't feel my right arm. I can't move my fingers."

She tried to keep the fear out of her own voice. "I know. Michael, your collarbone was shattered.. The vein was torn and it bled heavily. There's a lot of internal bruising. The doctors think that the swelling is pressing on the nerves, and that once it goes down, the paralysis will improve."

He was silent for a long moment. "They're not sure, are they?"

Her hands tightened around the steel rails surrounding the bed, fingernails biting into her palms. She might be able to evade his questions about String, but not this. "They didn't see any nerve damage when they did the surgery, and they don't think there is any. But, no. They can't be absolutely sure."

Four days after the infection was brought under control, they finally transferred Michael to the Firm's medical facility in LA. Familiar territory seemed to do him good. Within a few days, he was well enough that Caitlin felt comfortable sleeping at her apartment.

She arrived at the hospital to find Michael out of bed, sitting in the chair that had served her as a makeshift cot. It was amazing what a difference a week could make. By the time the antibiotics had taken effect, Michael had looked like a corpse, his skin gray and his face aged far beyond his years. Now, he was dressed in the pants from a set of white silk pajamas, with a matching robe draped around his shoulders and his familiar glasses once again perched on the bridge of his nose. At his own insistence, he was no longer on narcotics, and the IVs had been removed. Except for the bandages, he appeared almost normal.

Someone unfamiliar with the man might have missed the lines of fatigue etched around his eyes, or the grimace that accompanied every cautious movement. Caitlin was sure that most people would never see the veil of fear that blanketed him every time he thought no one was watching. She knew he was scared, and she didn't blame him. She couldn't imagine herself in Michael's position, not knowing if he'd ever use his arm again.

He didn't talk about it, and she didn't really expect that he would. Instead, he snapped at the doctors and nurses with a growing impatience. Occasionally, his anger settled on her as a target. She ignored it, accepting it for what it was. Caitlin did what she could to distract him, asking him about his early years in the Firm, the places he'd been, the people he'd met. Michael spoke freely of some things, in other cases he would only tell her about the sights he'd seen, not when or why he was there. Overall, Caitlin was surprised by how open he was.

She had come to know most of Michael's doctors. The two men who entered now with Marella were Doctors Lloyd and Marklin. Lloyd was the neurologist. Marklin was an old acquaintance. From what Michael had told her, Jeffery Marklin was the one who had put him back together after Moffet destroyed Red Star. Caitlin relinquished her seat and moved back out of the way as Lloyd began his examination. Usually, she stepped out when the doctors came in, but she was impatient to hear what they had to say, and no one had actually told her to leave.

Before letting him out of bed, they had secured Michael's right arm with a complicated sling that hung over his uninjured shoulder and had straps that wrapped around his back to keep the limb secured against his side. With both his collarbone and shoulder blade broken, and such extensive damage to the soft tissues, they wanted to keep the joint as still as possible. Now, she watched at they loosened the sling. One of the doctors asked Briggs to move his fingers. From where she was standing, Cait couldn't see his hand, but she could see Marella's concerned frown.

Marklin moved to the foot of the bed to get his patient's chart, leaving Caitlin with a better view of what Lloyd was doing. He had something sharp and metallic in his hand, almost like a thin nail. The doctor worked his way up Michael's forearm, jabbing the point into his skin every few inches. She stared with a sick fascination, finally tearing her eyes away to focus on Michael's face. He never flinched.

Caitlin felt her stomach churn, the bile rise in her throat. Clamping her hand to her mouth, she turned and sprinted from the room. The ladies lavatory was only a few doors away, but she barely made it, throwing open the stall door and dropping to her knees as her stomach rebelled. It was over almost as quickly as it had started. Her system emptied, she knelt there for several minutes, regaining her composure. Once again in control, she pushed herself to her feet and swung open the stall door.

Marella leaned against the sink, waiting. There was compassion in her eyes, not the accusation Caitlin expected. The agent handed her a paper cup filled with water. "You okay?"

Cait rinsed her mouth, then turned on the faucet and refilled the cup.. "I guess so. I don't know what was worse, watching Dr. Lloyd or watching Michael's face." She turned off the water. "I'm sorry I reacted like that."

"Don't be. I'm the one who should apologize. I knew what they were going to do. I should have warned you. It's not an easy thing to see." Marella met her eyes, as if gauging her reaction. "Especially when it's someone you care about."

Caitlin heard the carefully couched question in the agent's words. She didn't have an answer for it. She still didn't know exactly how she felt about Michael. She drank the cup of water, then reached for a paper towel to wipe her hands. "Marella, the odds aren't getting any better, are they? The more time that goes by...?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

"The more likely it is that there is irreversible nerve damage." Marella nodded with an obvious reluctance. "If there isn't some improvement within the next few days, they may do more surgery to be sure nothing is pinched or pressing on the nerves, but I'm not sure it will do any good. I'm afraid he may never regain full use of his arm..." She turned away to study her reflection in the mirror. "He may never use that arm again at all.."

"What is he going to do?"

The agent shook her head. "I don't know. Michael is a survivor, but... I don't know."

"What are_ we_ going to do?"

"Be there for him. That's all we can do." Marella turned back toward Caitlin. "There is one other thing. We have to tell him about Hawke and Santini."

"Now? No. He's got enough on his plate. We can't."

"We have to. If we don't, someone else will. Do you want him to hear it from Zeus?"

"God, no. And I guess we can't keep the rest of the committee away from him forever." The Admiral had been in to see him, but he was Michael's friend, and he had been cautioned about the secret they were keeping. The other members wouldn't be so cooperative.

"I wish we could, but... I'll break it to him as gently as I can." The agent started toward the door.

"No." Caitlin stopped her. "Let me. As close as I was to the guys, maybe it will be a little easier coming from me."

Marella paused to consider it, finally nodded. "All right. In that case... the POWs are being transferred stateside today. I want to make sure everything is going smoothly." The agent started to go, then hesitated. "If you need me, I'll be at Knightsbridge. Have me paged."

Caitlin nodded, hating the thought of what she was about to do, knowing it had to be done.

Michael had seen the look on Caitlin's face as she ran from the room, and he knew why she had left so suddenly. He didn't blame her. He didn't need to have the doctors interpret their tests for him. The results were obvious, and the prognosis was rapidly becoming just as clear.

His dark thoughts were interrupted as Caitlin came back into the room. Michael decided it would be best not to comment on her abrupt departure, to simply pretend that he hadn't noticed. He reached for the remote control and pointed it toward the television, forcing a lightness he didn't feel. "So, what's your pleasure, 'Wheel of Fortune' or 'The Price is Right'?"

She shook her head, "Not right now." Michael had gone back to bed when the doctors finished with him, and now Caitlin pulled a chair closer and sat nervously on the edge of it. "There's something we need to talk about."

He took a second look at Caitlin, and put the remote down. There was something weighing heavily on her. The first thing that occurred to him was that they had sent her to deliver the final verdict on his arm, but he quickly rejected the possibility. That news would come from the doctors. This was something else. He had been resting against the pillows, but now he sat up straighter. "What is it, Cait?"

"I don't know where to begin." She bit her lip. "Michael, just after we left for Cambodia, String got a tip that his brother was in Burma. He went to your office looking for you."

"Damn." It was the one eventuality that he hadn't been able to cover. "What happened?"

"Someone named Jason Locke was running your division. I assume you know him?" Caitlin paused. waiting for his nod of agreement. "Anyhow, Locke blew him off, told him he really didn't have any proof. As you might imagine, String wasn't impressed, and he wasn't very happy to find out that you weren't there." Abruptly, she rose and paced the room, her arms folded across her. "It turns out that we were a little too late. We didn't find St. John because he was no longer being held by the Khmer Rouge. He had been recovered by a mercenary who planned to use him as bait to get Airwolf."

"Shit." There was something about the way Caitlin phrased her words, her nervous steps. "Did they get Airwolf?"

"No. And St. John is safe. Locke, Jo Santini and some Air Force officer flew in and picked him out of the mercenary's camp."

"Jo Santini?" It didn't make sense. _If those three went after St. John, where were Hawke and Santini?_ "I'm not sure I'm following you, Cait. You said they flew in...?"

She turned to face the window. "In Airwolf."

So, Hawke did go through with his plans to teach Jo to fly Airwolf. _But that didn't explain where...? _"Cait, where were String and Dom?" He had the sudden sinking feeling that he really didn't want to know.

Caitlin rubbed at her eyes, and when she turned back toward him, he could see the moisture forming there. "Dom had bought a second-hand chopper right before we left. He was working on it, refurbishing everything. He'd just replaced the fuel pump. He didn't know that the company had gotten a batch of bad castings. There was a recall, but the word wasn't out yet." She took a long, shuddering breath. "Dom went to start the engine up, and String saw the smoke. He realized something was wrong. He tried to get to Dom... The whole thing exploded in a fireball." Her voice cracked, and tears began to drip down her face, damp rivulets against her pale cheeks. "Dom died before the ambulance got there. String... String lived long enough to see his brother again. St. John took him back to the cabin to die."

"Dear God." It hit him harder than his own injuries had. After all the missions those two men had flown, all the dangerous situations he himself had put them in. Hawke and Santini, both of them, gone as a result of some senseless mechanical failure. He couldn't begin to imagine what it was doing to Caitlin. _How long had she known? How long had she been shielding him from that knowledge?_ Michael realized that she was far stronger than he had ever suspected. He reached out to her, taking her hand and pulling he towards him. "Come here, Cait."

She did as he asked, crawling carefully into the bed. He slid over, making more room for her. The movement hurt, pulling at the wounds to his chest, but it didn't matter. He knew his physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish Caitlin was feeling. Laying back, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and eased her down beside him, her face buried against him.

"I'm sorry," she said through the tears, "I didn't want to tell you. You didn't need this on top of everything else."

"I wish you'd told me sooner. I wish I'd known." By comparison, his problems seemed suddenly insignificant. His fingers brushed her hair. Caitlin shouldn't have had to face the deaths alone.

She pulled away long enough to look up at him, and for the first time, he saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the lines of stress that creased her face. Her clothes hung loosely on her. How much weight had she lost? Had she been eating at all? He had been too wrapped up in his own situation to see into hers. His thoughts were interrupted as she laid back down beside him. "There was nothing you could have done, Michael. There was nothing either of us could have done. It was too late. By the time we got back, it was all over. Even Dom's funeral. It was just too late."

He could feel his own eyes water as he held her close. "I'm so sorry, Cait. I'm so sorry I ever got you involved in any of this."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault. It had nothing to do with you, or the Firm, or even Airwolf. It was just an accident."

There was nothing else Michael could say, so he simply held her, unconsciously stroking her hair. Time passed, and eventually her quiet, even breathing told him that she had dozed off. He didn't object. He had spent too much time flat on his back, helpless. Useless. It felt good to hold her, to comfort her. As little as it might be, at least he could still manage that.

It was perhaps an hour later when she woke. She sat up with a start. Caitlin hopped quickly off the bed, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. "Oh God, Michael, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."

"You needed it. You're exhausted." He flashed a faint smile at her. "I didn't mind."

Caitlin blushed even more deeply. "Still, I shouldn't have... I mean..."

"It's all right." Michael reached within himself and made a decision. He had let too much slip past him. Too much had spiraled out of control while he laid in bed. It was time. "Cait, would you do something for me?"

"Of course."

"Go find Marklin and bring him back here. I need to see him."

"Michael! What on God's green earth do you think you're doing?" Caitlin demanded, returning to the room with Marklin close behind.

From where he sat on the edge of the bed, Michael looked up at her, turning his attention away from the shirt he held loosely in his left hand. "I'm going home." It was just as well that Caitlin and her entourage had arrived when they did. He had, despite some difficulty, managed to struggle into his pants and socks, and slip the pair of loafers onto his feet. The shirt, however, was another matter. He had quickly realized that there was no way he was going to get that on without help.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Caitlin turned to the doctor, looking for support. "Tell him! He's in no shape to be going anywhere."

Marklin snorted. "Michael, you do realize that anyone else with your injuries would still be in the ICU on a morphine drip, don't you?" The doctor shook his head and let out a long-suffering sigh. "However, that said... You have a truly amazing tolerance for pain, and you heal faster than anyone I've ever known. I'll be damned if I can explain it, but it's almost as if you have some sort of internal regulator that tells you just how much you can get away with and how hard you can push yourself." Marklin gestured toward the door. "Get the hell out of here. You're taking up a perfectly good bed."

Cait was horrified. "But... Michael can't --" Her gaze darted back and forth between the two men.

"Miss O'Shannessy, I know him. I've dealt with Michael before. Too many times," Marklin added, throwing a frosty glance toward his patient. "When he says he's leaving, it means he's leaving. Whether he walks out the front door, or crawls out the window -- which he has done on occasion, I might add. Trust me, it's easier this way."

He turned back toward Michael. "A couple conditions." He ticked them off on his fingers. "First, you continue with both the antibiotics and the deep breathing exercises. I'll be damned if I want you back in here with pneumonia -- or worse. Second, I need to see you in three days, and I want to hear about it if there's any change in the meantime. Third, I expect you to go home and take it easy." The doctor paused, folding his arms across his chest before continuing. "Whether or not you're willing to admit it, you very nearly didn't make it back this time."

"Fine," Michael agreed. _He would say whatever he had to say to get out of the damned place_. "I've got it. Antibiotics. Breathing exercises. Three days. And I will take it easy," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"One more thing. You're going to need help. You won't be able to change those dressings yourself."

Michael nodded a reluctant agreement. "All right. I'll call Marella."

"No, you won't." Marklin told him. "When she hasn't been worrying about you, that poor girl has been working her ass off trying to oversee medical and psychological treatment for those prisoners you brought back. Marella's supposed to be on winter break. She'll be back in class in a couple weeks; she needs the time off."

"You've got a point," Michael admitted. He scowled, unimpressed by the idea of allowing a stranger into his life. Unfortunately, it was the only way he was going to get Marklin to agree to release him. "I imagine you can recommend a private duty nurse?"

Marklin started to answer, but Caitlin cut him off. "Does Michael really need a professional?"

He shook his head. "No. It would only take a few minutes to show someone what needs to be done. Why, are you volunteering?"

Caitlin hesitated, as if only then realizing what she had said. After a moment, she nodded. "I guess I am, if Michael will have me."

Her uncertainty was written on her face. Michael didn't want to push her into making an offer she would later regret. "If you haven't already figured it out, I'm not the easiest person in the world to live with, Cait. Especially when I'm bored. I'll warn you right now that the longer I'm out of commission, the worse it will get."

She smiled. "I've put up with you for this long, I suppose I could tolerate you a little longer."

Marklin looked over at his patient for confirmation, and Michael nodded his agreement. "It's settled, then." He turned to Caitlin. "I'll get one of the nurses in here to show you how to work that sling and change the dressings."

Caitlin soon learned that Michael's idea of resting differed from her own. Arriving at his house after quick stopovers at her apartment and the grocery store, they were barely in the door before he was on the telephone. She had put away the groceries and had taken her hastily thrown together suitcase into the guest room to unpack. Now, more than two hours later, Michael was still on the phone, but Caitlin was settled in and had started working a jigsaw puzzle on the dining room table. Between calls, Michael explained that he was trying to find out what had gone on with his division in his absence. Judging from his mood, she suspected he wasn't happy with the answers he was getting.

Finally, he put the receiver down, scowling. He paced the living room, stopping to lean against the fireplace mantle. "That bastard. He screwed me over. Again." Before Michael could continue, the phone rang, and he snatched up the instrument. Caitlin couldn't help but hear his end of the conversation. "Briggs here. Oh, hello, Admiral." Michael chuckled. "Yeah, I told Marklin that I was leaving." There was a long pause, and when he continued, his voice was considerably more subdued. "Well, I can't say I didn't expect it. Thanks for letting me know. I'll talk to you later."

Caitlin watched him as he studied the handset, looking for all the world as if he might decide to hurl it against the nearest wall. Sighing, he finally set it on the end table and eased himself onto the sofa. He looked down toward the floor. _Defeated._ "Michael?"

He didn't look up. "That was the Admiral. He called to warn me that the committee has been in a meeting all afternoon. I've been placed on extended medical leave. It appears I was 'transferred' the day I left on vacation. They put Locke in charge of Airwolf. All of my 'angels' have been reassigned. When I'm ready to go back to work, they'll find me another position." Michael made a sound of disgust. "Assuming that day ever comes."

"What? They can't do that!"

"They can, and they have. As much as I'd like to say that Zeus is behind all of it, I really can't blame them. If I was making the call on one of my operatives, I'd do the same thing."

"But, they didn't pull this after Red Star, did they? Why should this be any different?"

He looked up at her. "Unfortunately, it _is _different. What happened at Red Star was company business, this was on my own time. I told you going in that we were working without a net."

"Even so... We rescued American prisoners. That ought to count for something, shouldn't it?"

Michael stood, and shook his head in negation as he began pacing. "Cait, think about it. I can't drive, I can't change my own shirt. I can't even sign my frigging name. What use am I to the Firm?"

He had stopped himself before he said it, but she knew what he was thinking. _What use am I to the __Firm -- or to anyone else_? It tore at her. She wanted to comfort him as he had comforted her, but he was far too proud and stubborn to allow that. "You'll learn, Michael. If worse comes to worst, you'll learn to do things left-handed. Maybe it will never come to that. There's still a good chance that once the swelling goes down you'll be just fine." Caitlin didn't want to think about the fact that the odds against that were growing longer by the moment. It left a lump in the pit of her stomach. What on earth would he do if she was wrong?

"Yeah." Michael answered quietly. He stood looking out the window for a time, then stepped out of the room, headed down the hall towards the master bedroom. He returned a few minutes later, a jacket slung around his shoulders. "I'm going out to get some air," he told Caitlin as he opened the outside door.

She started to protest, but he waved her off. "It's all right. I won't be gone long. I just need a little time to myself."

Caitlin nodded, understanding his need for privacy. "Don't overdo it, okay?" As he stepped through the door, she went back to working on the jigsaw puzzle, sorting the pieces to find the colors she needed to complete the sky.

Dampened by the walls of the house, the sharp sound was a muffled thud. She knew instantly what it was. Caitlin jumped to her feet, almost knocking the chair over. The single shot had come from outside. _No. Please, God, no_. She had already lost String and Dom, she couldn't stand to lose Michael, too. Terrified of what she might find, she threw open the door and rounded the corner of the house at a dead run. "Michael! Mi..." her voice rose, and just as quickly fell silent. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she stumbled to a stop. "Oh, thank God."

The alarm on Michael's face gave way to understanding. He lowered the automatic that he held awkwardly in his left hand. "I'm sorry, Cait." Michael glanced back toward the row of tin cans that lined the top rail of the fence. "I wanted to try some target practice. I didn't mean to scare you."

Caitlin breathed deeply, gathering her emotions back under control as she slowly walked up beside him. "Target practice?"

He took his time answering her. "It occurred to me that Zeus might convince the committee that I was a security risk."

A security risk. _The Zebra __S__quad terminated security risks._ "They wouldn't...?"

"I don't think so. But just in case I'm wrong, I want to be sure I can protect myself. And you."

Caitlin's stomach knotted. The Firm could be worse than a pack of rabid animals.

Her thoughts must have been echoed in the expression on her face, because he shrugged, a half-hearted, one-shouldered motion. "I'm not ready to throw the towel in just yet." He raised the weapon again. "Stick around, you can watch me make a fool of myself." Michael sighted the automatic carefully, aiming at one of the cans. He pulled the trigger, and Caitlin shuddered at the sound, nearly closing her eyes. The bullet nicked the wood of the fencepost, a few inches below his target. "At least I'm consistent," he muttered, then emptied the rest of the rounds, aiming each one. He hit a couple of the cans, the other shots were reasonably close. He shoved the empty weapon into a pocket, scowling, seemingly less than impressed with his performance. "Remind me to aim center of mass."

"Michael, when you fired... it kicks. It pulled on your chest, didn't it? It hurt?"

"I wouldn't want to go through a box of ammo," he admitted.

"That's the problem. You're anticipating the pain. You're flinching when you pull the trigger."

"You're probably right," he agreed. "Come on, let's go inside, you can reload this thing for me."

She was back in the jungle. It was hot, oppressive, sticky. Sweat streamed down her neck, and insects buzzed distractingly around her head. She swatted them away, continuing carefully down the trail. The path was trapped, and mines waited beneath the decaying leaves. She was alone here, apart from the Khmer Rouge. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the M-16 she carried. They were out there, waiting for her.

A line of skulls circled the encampment, the bones long ago picked clean and bleached by the elements. She stumbled past them, tearing her gaze from the empty, gaping sockets. There was a building, a shack of rotting timber and razor wire. That was where they would be. Weapons fire echoed over her head as she crept up to it and reached for the knob. It turned easily, and the door opened inwards. Caitlin stepped into the dim interior, searching for signs of life. There were bunks, figures curled on their sides, each facing the wall. She reached for the first, rolled the silent form toward her.

It was Dominic Santini, his bulky frame charred almost beyond recognition. Stifling a scream, she stepped forward to the second cot. Stringfellow Hawke, his skin blackened and peeling, yet cold and lifeless beneath her touch. His contorted features were frozen in a grimace of pain and terror. Panic rose to consume her as she moved toward the last bunk. She approached it hesitantly, fearfully kneeling beside the still figure. Hands shaking, she reached out to him, turning his face towards her. Michael stared back, unseeing, the automatic falling from his lifeless fingers as she brushed his hair back to find the nearly bloodless hole that pierced his temple.

_No!_

Caitlin woke with a start, gasping for air. She sat there in the center of the bed for a long minute, pulse pounding in her ears as her breathing gradually slowed. Finally, she laid back down on her side, pulling her knees almost to her chin. _ It was only a nightmare. _It was just the latest installment of the terrifying dreams that had haunted her sleep ever since Marella had told her of the explosion at Santini Air.

This version had a new and macabre twist. The images of Michael's death lingered in her mind, refusing to go away. There was no more denying it. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that Marella's unvoiced suspicions held more than a grain of truth. Michael was many things, and both he and the Firm he worked for had dubious methods, some of which went against everything she thought she believed in. Despite that, she found that she did care about him, probably far more than she should.

She heard movement from down the hallway, Michael's bedroom. The sound stopped, then a few minutes later, she heard it again. Apparently he wasn't sleeping any better than she was. She listened for a moment, then slipped out of bed, pulling on her robe. Marklin had prescribed sleeping pills. Caitlin doubted if Michael would take them, but at least she could make the suggestion.

Michael thumbed the control for the adjustable bed once more, this time raising the head a few inches. He had bought the bed shortly after Red Star: back then, he had usually been able to find a position that was relatively comfortable. Tonight, it wasn't working.

Not that he expected to sleep. Even with the low murmur and flickering light from the television, since his encounter with Stoner, sleep no longer came easily, even on a good night. This, most assuredly, was not a good night.

To be honest, it wasn't physical discomfort that was keeping him awake. Compared to the burns he'd suffered after Moffet's attack, the ache in his shoulder and ribs was little more than an annoyance. This was something else entirely.

It was ironic that what Moffet could not manage with Airwolf's entire arsenal, a Khmer Rouge loyalist had accomplished with a single rifle. Michael knew that his career was finished. Worse, it seemed increasingly likely that his life as he had known it was over.

He heard the light footsteps in the hallway, bare feet padding on the thick carpet. Reaching for the remote, he shut off the television as Caitlin appeared, silhouetted in the light from the hallway.

"Michael?" she whispered from the doorway.

"I'm awake."

She stepped hesitantly into the room. "I thought I heard you. Can't sleep, huh?" Caitlin moved closer, reaching down to check his sling. "Are you in pain?"

"I'm fine," he lied.

Even in the dim light, he could see the raised eyebrow and skeptical smile. "I've heard about your definition of 'fine'."

He chuckled at that. "Sorry. Really, I'm all right. It's just a little hard to sleep when you're trussed up like the Thanksgiving turkey." It was true, as far as it went.

"Can I get you anything? Dr. Marklin --"

He cut her off. "No. No drugs. Cait, you know the trouble I have sleeping. If I start taking that stuff, I'm not going to stop." It would be too easy to start down that path.

"Okay," she agreed, "No drugs. Is there anything else I can get you? Another blanket? Pillow? Glass of water?"

"No." He shook his head slightly. "Thank you for offering, but I'm all set."

"Well, I guess I'd better let you try to get some sleep, then." She started to turn away.

There was reluctance in her voice. Something was bothering her. "Cait, what's wrong?"

Turning back towards him, she shook her head in negation. "It's nothing."

"Yeah. And I'm fine."

Caitlin snorted at that, a quick, dry sound. "It's nothing, really. Just a bad dream."

"Something I have absolutely no experience with." Michael patted the bed beside him. "Come here, sit with me." He waited until she had circled the bed and settled carefully beside him, her legs folded under her. "Now tell me about it."

She bit her lip. "I was back in Cambodia. It was different, though. I had flown there in Airwolf. Alone. There were gunshots and grenades going off around me, but I never saw any gunmen. I broke into the barracks, and I found Dom..." She broke off, taking a long, shuddering breath. "I can't. I can't talk about this. Not with you."

Marella had briefed him on what had happened at Santini Air in their absence. He knew how Dominic had died. He could guess at the images that haunted Caitlin's dreams. He reached over and closed his hand around hers, not surprised to find her trembling. "The explosion killed him instantly, Cait. He never suffered. I doubt if he even had time to realize what was happening."

She nodded. "And String?"

"Minor burns, mostly his arms. They weren't what killed him. Hawke had serious internal injuries. He didn't want to die in the hospital, so his brother took him home."

"I'm sorry, Michael."

"For what?"

"For bringing it up at all. I know it's too close to..." She didn't finish.

"To what happened to me at Red Star? Talking about it doesn't bother me. As I told you, I don't remember it," he reminded her. His thumb idly caressed her knuckles, brushing lightly over the ring on her finger. _He hadn't noticed that she was still wearing that stupid Cubi__c__ Zirconia._

She was quiet for a time. "The dream, it was so real.," she said, finally.

"The worst ones always are."

Caitlin refolded her legs, hesitant. "In the movies, spies carry cyanide pills in case they're captured. Do they in real life. Or is that just Hollywood?"

_Where had that question come from? _ "Some do," he answered cautiously.

"Do you?" Her voice was so low he hardly caught her words.

"I never used to."

"You have since Stoner."

"Yeah." He caught the haunted look in her eyes, and suddenly knew what she was afraid of. "I wouldn't do that to you."

Guarded relief flashed across her face. "I'd rather hear you say you wouldn't do it to yourself."

"No. You'd rather hear the truth. I wouldn't do that to you," he repeated. "Especially after the chances you took to get me out of that jungle alive."

He felt the shudder that ran through her. "So much happened. Things went so wrong. There was so much blood. It was everywhere. Your shirt was soaked, my clothes, my hands. The Huey was drenched in it. You were bleeding and it wouldn't stop and you couldn't breath, and I was begging Marella to land so she could help me. When she told me what I had to do ..." Caitlin shook her head. "I didn't think I could. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you any worse than you were already hurt. Then we finally got out of there, and I found out about String and Dom. At the same time, you kept getting sicker and sicker. All the tubes and machines – I thought I was going to lose you, too."

He wished that he had never taken her into Cambodia. But then, if he hadn't, she might have been the one flying that chopper at Santini Air. "I'm not going anywhere. You're not going to lose me."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good." Caitlin leaned forward, and her lips brushed his cheek. "Thank you." There was a long moment's hesitation, and she slowly leaned forward again. This time her lips found his and held them. The kiss was anything but platonic.

She pulled back, and he knew the decision was his to make. He could let her go back to her room, or he could reach for her, draw her to him. Caitlin was a beautiful woman. The attraction had long been there, he realized, lurking just below the level of conscious awareness. In the dim light, she was alabaster perfection, pale skin and dark hair contrasted by the deep green robe that draped her figure in soft folds. Femininity personified. No outward trace remained to suggest that this was the same woman who had risked herself to drag him out of Cambodia.

Almost of it's own volition, his hand rose to touch her temple, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, continuing down the smooth skin of her throat. His fingers closed on her robe, and he guided her closer until their lips met. Something flashed between them, something almost electric. He heard her gasp, and knew she had felt it, too. They kissed again, holding the contact until they both needed to breathe.

Michael pushed the covers out of the way, an unspoken invitation for her to join him. She eased herself closer, lying carefully against him, his arm around her. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the soft scent of jasmine as he stroked the back of her head. Her fingertips explored his chest, those few spots that weren't covered by bandage or sling. It was as erotic as anything he had ever felt. He inhaled sharply, wincing as the wound to his chest protested.

Caitlin stopped, leaning back to look into his eyes. "Did I..."

"No, I just breathed a little too deeply. It's okay." He brought his lips to her forehead. "Cait, I can't--"

She pulled away, sitting up abruptly. "What was I thinking? Of course you can't--"

"Cait--"

"You should still be in the hospital--"

"Cait--"

"You're in no condition to—"

"Caitlin." This time, he raised his voice enough to get her attention. Once he had it, he lowered his tone. "Cait, what I started to say-- I can't roll over. That rather limits our options."

She reached out and took his hand. "You mean, you want to...?"

He brought her hand to his lips, kissed the back of her knuckles. "God, yes. I want to."

She edged back beside him. "I don't want to hurt you."

"We'll be careful." He released her hand, and found the control for the bed, raising the head until he was nearly in a sitting position. "There. That's better. Now why don't you take off that robe?"

She did as he asked, tossing it over a nearby chair. Unbidden, she moved back beside him. "How's that?"

With the robe gone, she wore only the matching camisole. The thin silk was cool beneath his touch. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

Amusement flickered in her eyes. "You think so?"

"You're beyond beautiful." Michael pulled her close, to where he could reach her with his lips. He began with the curve of her jaw, working his way upwards until he teased her earlobe. At the same time, his hand found her breast, gently kneading the nipple through the gossamer fabric.

He was rewarded by a low sound of pleasure that resonated from the back of her throat. "Oh!"

"Like that, do you?" he asked, repeating the motion.

"Mmmm."

"I'll take that as a yes." He reached across to tweak the other nipple. It was annoyingly awkward. "I can't reach you," he complained. "Straddle me, Cait."

She did as he asked, kneeling with one leg on each side of his. "Is that better?"

"Much." He touched her, caressing her side. Fabric became an impediment. He drew back from her just a bit. "I want you naked."

She laughed at that. "In that case..." she hooked a finger into the waistband of his pajamas. "These have got to go."

"Sounds fair," he agreed. "You first. I want to look at you."

Caitlin slowly pulled the camisole over her head. She smiled, almost shyly. "Disappointed?"

"Never." His gaze turned to her lean contours. She could stand to gain a few pounds, undoubtedly weight she had lost in the preceding weeks. Otherwise, she was perfect, her fair skin unblemished save for a few light freckles. His hand explored the curve of her breast, continued down her firm stomach, trailed along her thigh. "God, you're beautiful."

She didn't answer, instead tugging at his pajamas. "Your turn." Caitlin looked up into his eyes. "How are we going to do this?"

The easiest way would be for him to simply get out bed and take them off, but that idea had little appeal. He wanted her hands on him. "I'll shift my weight, you work them down."

After a short struggle, he was free, kicking the pants onto the floor. Caitlin resumed her position and ran her hands along his thighs, continuing up to his waist. One fingertip playfully circled his navel. "You know, you don't look so bad yourself," she teased. Still smiling, she kissed him, tasting his lips.

For once, he was grateful for the hours he spent in the Firm's gym. He kept himself in better shape than most men his age, and many who were considerably younger. The scars might not be attractive, but he knew his physique was nothing to be ashamed of. Longing for more contact, he wrapped his arm around Caitlin and pulled her against him.

"Michael, be careful," she warned, trying to keep her weight off of him.

"Shh," he hushed her. "This feels so good." Whatever pain his movements brought was more than compensated by the warmth of her body against his. He crushed his lips to hers, then shifted his attention to her neck, feeling the shiver that ran through her. His hand worked its way between her thighs, and she moaned in pleasure. He explored higher, and found her damp, slick with her own juices. He raised his lips from her throat, leaning back so that he could search her face. "Are you sure? Is this what you want?"

"Yes." She reached for him, stroking his hard shaft. It sent a spasm of pleasure racing through him. "I just don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," he assured her. "Ride me, Cait. Please." He felt as if he couldn't wait another second.

Caitlin slowly lowered herself onto his length. The feeling was indescribable, her muscles contracting in waves around him. For a moment he felt as if he might burst, and he fought to control the sensations as she began to move, rocking gently against him.

"Slowly, Cait, slowly," he warned. "Otherwise, this is going to be over before it starts." Michael gasped as her fingernails brushed his skin, sparks of electricity arcing along their path. He breathed deeply, ignoring protesting ribs. Pain merged with pleasure and was forgotten, all that mattered was the heat of her body against his, and the tight grip in which she held him as he thrust deep inside her.

Time stopped: there was no future, no past. There was only the present. He inhaled her scent, her perfume laced with the pungent odor of their combined sweat. As he kissed her, he could taste the salt on her skin. Michael's blood raced, thundering in his ears as the pressure within him mounted.

She moaned, her back arching as she cried out his name, and he could hold out no longer. With one final thrust, he allowed himself the release his body demanded. The world around him grayed, spinning dizzily, and he felt his hold on consciousness slipping.

"Michael?" There was concern in Caitlin's breathless voice, and as he opened his eyes he wasn't certain whether or not he had actually blacked out. In any case, the spinning had stopped and the room had returned to its normal colors. "Michael, are you okay?"

"That was incredible." He was exhausted and near the point of collapse. His ribs throbbed, pulsing in tempo with the thudding of his heart. The bandage was wet against his chest, he could feel blood seeping into the dressing and assumed he had torn stitches loose. None of that was important. Michael looked over at Caitlin, to where she nestled beside him. What had happened between them was well worth every bit of the pain. "Thank you."

"You're thanking me?" Tousled, flush from exertion, she was still radiant. "Why on earth are you thanking me?"

He reached up with a shaky hand to brush a wayward strand of hair from her eyes. "For reminding me that I'm still a man."

"You most certainly are." She smiled, her eyes dancing. "If you were any more of one, I wouldn't be able to walk for a week." At his answering chuckle, she slipped out of bed. "And with that thought, I think I'd better go back to my room so we can both get some sleep." Caitlin started to retrieve her robe and camisole.

He reached out to her. "Don't. Stay here with me tonight."

"You're not going to sleep very well with me sharing your bed."

"I don't sleep very well anyhow." Michael patted the sheet beside him. "Stay. There's plenty of room."

"Well, if you're sure I won't disturb you..." She draped the robe across the chair and held the nightgown up, as if considering whether she should put it on. Apparently deciding against it, she tossed the garment on top of the robe. Caitlin slid into the bed, reaching to pull up the covers they had kicked aside.

He found the control and lowered the head of the bed. "That going to be okay?" he asked her.

"Fine." She nestled against his side, pulling the blankets over them. Michael slipped his arm around Caitlin's shoulders, holding her close. "Are you comfortable?" she asked him.

"Yeah, are you?"

"This feels good." Her fingernails lightly caressed his side. "I'm glad you asked me to stay."

_He was glad she had agreed. _ "No more nightmares tonight, not for either of us. Deal?"

"Deal." She reached across him, taking his right hand in hers. Although he couldn't feel it, he could see it, and he appreciated the gesture.

Caitlin suddenly sat up. She looked as if she had seen a ghost. "Michael, do that again."

"Do what?"

"Squeeze my hand." She stared at him with a jumbled combination of confusion and hope. "I think I just felt you move your fingers."

He considered it. Had he unconsciously responded to her show of support? There was only one way to be sure. Michael concentrated on trying to curl his fingers.

"Yes. Definitely. I was watching this time."

He needed to be certain, to see for himself. "Cait, turn on the light. Please."

She slid out of bed and switched on the lamp. The sudden brightness brought with it the usual flash of nausea that would, given time, become a splitting headache. He ignored it. For the moment, double vision was irrelevant. He hesitated, reluctant, afraid she might be wrong. Finally, he looked down. It wasn't much, not more than a fraction of an inch, but... yes, there was definite movement. "Thank God."

Caitlin turned off the light and crawled back into bed beside him. "It's going to be all right."

He was afraid to let his hopes get too high. "Maybe. And maybe that's all I'll get."

"Pessimist." He could hear the smile in her voice. "It's a start. You couldn't do that yesterday. So it's a start."

"Yeah, it's a start." Michael pulled Caitlin to him, cradling her against his side. "Thank God," he whispered, as much to himself as to her. He buried his face in her hair, wanting nothing more than to roll her onto her back and enter her again. He knew he couldn't. He had already pushed his shattered body well beyond its limits. Instead, he laid back with his arm around her, holding her close until sleep took them both.

Caitlin woke early. She slipped quietly out of bed, trying not to disturb Michael. As careful as she was, he grimaced when she moved, making a low sound that could have been either a sigh or a moan.

Silently, she gathered up their discarded clothing. She pulled the camisole over her head, then folded his pajamas over the arm of the chair before retrieving her robe and tiptoeing from the room. At the doorway, she stopped, looking back at him. The dawning sun was rising on the other side of the house, but its early rays lightened the sky enough so that the room wasn't quite dark. Caitlin stood there for a long moment, watching him. He shifted slightly. Even in his sleep, Michael winced as the motion pulled at his wounds.

The man had a shattered shoulder and a hole torn through his chest. He had nearly died, first from blood loss and then from infection. He belonged in the hospital. What in the name of God had she been thinking when she threw herself at him? Michael was in no condition to be up and walking around, much less anything else. Caitlin shook her head, damning herself. She had seen the pain that even a single deep breath had brought. Despite that, she hadn't backed off. She had let her emotions take control of her, pushing him into a rash act that must have been pure agony. It was a wonder that she hadn't killed him.

He deserved better than that. Michael had tried to fulfill his promise to String, and it had cost him everything. She bit at her lip, and with one last reluctant glance, she headed for the guest bedroom. When he woke up, she would beg him for his forgiveness.

Michael reclined against the pillows, reluctant to open his eyes. The previous night's dream was still sharp and vivid in his mind, and he hated to abandon it so easily. If he tried, he could still feel Caitlin's soft hands on him, her nails scraping his skin, her lean body pressed tightly against his. It was amazing what the mind could create; the images were so clear and focused that he could almost believe that the two of them had actually spent the night together.

He could only put off the inevitable for so long. Reluctantly, he shoved the illusion aside and began the uncomfortable process of getting out of bed. He retrieved his glasses from the table beside the bed, even that simple motion difficult, aggravating his injuries. He was stiff and sore, more so that he had been in the hospital. The bandage pulled awkwardly at the surgical incision between his ribs. _ Perhaps the target practice hadn't been one of his better ideas. _ Sitting up, he looked beneath the sling, checking the dressing. He expected to find that the tape had become dislodged.

The adhesive was still in place, but traces of dried blood stained the gauze. It brought memories tumbling back; the hazy recollection of stitches tearing as he climaxed. _That wasn't real. _ He convinced himself that he must have opened the wound in his sleep. Michael threw the covers back and swung his legs out of bed. Bare legs, he realized abruptly. He spotted his pajamas waiting for him, carefully folded. "No," he whispered. "Please, tell me I didn't..." _ It wasn't a dream. _"Shit!" he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut to cut out the sight.

Memories that had comprised a wonderful fantasy formed a much less attractive reality. Caitlin had come to him in the night, lonely and looking for comfort. He had taken advantage of her, playing on her sympathy. He had used her to repair his own tattered ego. Opening his eyes, he pulled on the abandoned pajamas, wondering whether she could ever forgive him. Caitlin was a very special woman; her trust and respect had come to mean more to him than he could ever express. She had risked everything to drag him out of the jungle, and how had he repaid her? Treating her like that was unthinkable.

Rising gingerly to his feet, went into the bathroom, pausing to stare at his reflection in the mirror. An aging assassin glared back at him. What on earth had possessed him? Caitlin was young, beautiful, vibrant. What insanity had let him believe that she might be attracted to a beat-up spy almost twenty years her senior? He wouldn't blame her if she told him she never wanted to see him again.

He shaved awkwardly with his left hand, then splashed water on his face. Anything more could wait until later. Finished, he walked out into the hallway, looking for her. The door to her room was closed, but the heady scents of fresh brewed coffee and frying bacon drifted from the kitchen, and he followed them there.

Caitlin was already dressed, working at the stove. She heard Michael come into the room behind her, and dared a quick glance back over her shoulder at him. "Good morning. I was just about to call you." She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, and she quickly looked away, turning her attention back to the bacon. She was afraid to ask the question. "How are you feeling?"

"Like an idiot." She heard the refrigerator door open and close, and the scrape of a chair as he pulled it out and sat down at the table. "Cait, about last night... I'm sorry. It never should have happened. If I'd been thinking clearly, I never would have allowed it to happen."

Her fingers tightened on the spatula. _It never should have happened_. He was right. It shouldn't have happened. Somehow, though, she had hoped that he wouldn't use the word "never". But he had. "I could say the same thing." She jabbed at the bacon, fighting to keep the emotion from her voice. "I'm sorry, too, Michael. It wasn't a very good idea, was it?" she asked without turning.

"No." He hesitated. "I hope that this doesn't ruin things between us. We've become friends, good friends who can count on one another. I'd like to think that the bond between us is strong enough to survive one ill-advised evening, because I certainly don't want to destroy it."

"Neither do I." Friendship. If there was nothing else, at least she still had that.

"Can we pretend that last night never happened?"

She might pretend, but it would be a long time before she forgot. Even as injured as he was, Michael was a passionate and talented lover. The night she had spent with him would not be easy to ignore. Caitlin nodded with a mixture of reluctance and relief. "Agreed." Turning the stove off, she brought plates to the table. "I hope you like your eggs scrambled."

"Scrambled is fine, thank you." He started in on them as she poured the coffee, then sat down across from him and began picking at her own plate.

"How's your hand, has any more movement come back?"

Michael looked down, as if only then remembering. As she watched, she could see his fingers move. Again, it wasn't much, but was perceptibly more than the night before. He nodded, grinning. "Gaining on it."

"We need to call your doctor. He said to let him know if there was any change."

"Not today."

"But--"

He bit into a piece of bacon. "I've been poked and prodded for the last two weeks. If I never see the inside of another hospital, it will still be too soon. I need a break from it. This--" he glanced down, "seems to be improving on it's own. Let's wait a couple days and see what happens."

She could see his point. There was probably little the doctors could do anyhow, besides confirming what they already knew. "Okay, we'll wait."

Michael picked at his eggs. "Can you drive a stick?"

"A stick?"

"Stick shift. Standard transmission."

Caitlin grinned. "Oh, please. I'm a Texas farm girl. My first vehicle was a twenty-year-old pickup truck. Of course I can drive standard."

"Good. Let's go for a ride this afternoon. We can take my car."

"You don't like my Mustang?" she teased.

"The Mustang is fine, but I've got power seats and windows."

Accessories that would undoubtedly be easier for him to operate. "Your car it is. You're sure you feel up to it?"

"I'm already going stir crazy. Don't worry, I'm not planning anything strenuous, we'll just take a ride up the coast and pick up some dinner."

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, his arm propped on a pillow as Caitlin redressed his wounds. When she removed the bandages, he saw that there had been minimal bleeding, and the stitches appeared intact. That was a relief, had it been worse, she would have insisted on calling Marklin. _That was the last thing he wanted. _

She leaned close, her hands warm on his skin as she finished taping the gauze in place. He tried to ignore that warmth, the fragrant scent of her shampoo, the nearness of her lean frame. _Don't think about it_, he told himself. Finished, she straightened up. "All set."

He gestured toward the closet. "Could you grab me a shirt, please?"

"Sure." She opened the closet door, then chuckled. "I think I just went snow-blind!"

Michael knew that at least ninety percent of the contents were some shade of white or off-white. He grinned back at her. "Wise ass."

Caitlin disappeared into the closet. "You have a preference?"

"Surprise me." He already had a good idea what she would select.

As he had expected, she reemerged carrying a black shirt. "Have you ever even worn this?"

"Once or twice." He wasn't about to tell Caitlin that he had worn it to the private, personal memorial he had held for Maria. Perhaps it was naive of him, but he still wanted to believe that Kruger and Kinskcov had forced his former lover to betray him.

From the look she gave him, Caitlin heard something in his voice. "I can get something else."

"No, that's fine." It was time to let go of Maria. "Give me a hand getting it on, will you?"

Minutes later, dressed and with the sling replaced, Michael stood. He rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a key chain with several keys. "Come on, let's get out of here." He led Caitlin outside, enjoying the winter sun as they walked to the garage. He held the door for her, and she headed toward the white Mercedes convertible.

"Wrong car." He motioned for her to follow him as he crossed the garage to the third, walled-off bay.

He felt his pulse rate jump. The sleek lines of Italian engineering brought a surge of adrenalin, as it always did. He wasn't one for buying himself a lot of "toys", but this had been an exception. Caitlin joined him, looking at the car with something approaching terror. "Michael, I said I could drive standard. I never said I could drive a Ferrari!"

"Clutch works the same way it worked on your truck." He unlocked the driver's door and opened it for her. "I'll show you the shift pattern." Once she was in the car, he went around to the other side and let himself in, reaching across awkwardly to close the door once he was settled. _Getting out of the low slung car was going to be a bitch._

Caitlin hadn't started the engine. "What are you waiting for?" he teased.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "For you to come to your senses. Are you sure about this?"

He thumbed the remote, and the garage door opened behind them. "I took the Mercedes in for service, and I happened to see this car on the showroom floor." The maroon 308 Ferrari wasn't something he normally would have even looked at. "I must have been having some sort of mid-life crisis, because I decided I had to have it. Less than a month later, Moffet blew up Red Star. Damn clutch. My knee couldn't handle it, I didn't drive the car for six months. Now..." he looked down at his arm. "Drive, Cait. Please."

She nodded, starting the car. "Where are we headed?"

"Let's cut down to the Pacific Coast Highway. We'll head north from there." He put his left hand over hers on the gearshift. "Okay, now reverse is over here..."

All in all, it had been a good day. As Michael had expected, despite her fears Caitlin had driven flawlessly, quickly learning where the gears were. He had kept his hand on hers longer than it needed to be there, allowing her to assume that he was worried about his transmission. In reality, he simply enjoyed touching her.

They had driven up the coast, stopping for coffee near Santa Maria, where they turned around and headed back. Now, not far from the house, they had found a seafood joint with outdoor tables and a view of the ocean. The two of them sat on opposite sides of the worn picnic table, watching the sun drop towards the horizon. If the streaks of red in the sky were any indication, morning would bring another example of the fine weather that southern California was known for.

Michael picked at his clams and French fries. What he had really had a craving for was lobster, but picking out lobster meat with one hand would have been impossible, and he wasn't about to ask Caitlin to do it. It was embarrassing enough having her cut up his food at home. He looked down, willing his hand to move. The fingers and thumb responded. It still wasn't much, but he had been working at it all day as they had driven up the coast, and there was a definite improvement since the morning.

"Michael," Caitlin sighed, rolling her eyes. "Enough for one day. Relax. Rest."

"It's all right. Think of it as a kid with a new toy."

The corner of her mouth turned up. "One that moves, huh?"

"Yeah." _Thankfully._

She got up and came around the table, sitting down beside him. "Look the other way. Over there at the water." Caitlin reached out, but he wasn't sure what she intended. "Let me know if you feel anything."

He closed his eyes, concentrated. "Right there." His eyes blinked open. "You scraped the inside of my wrist?"

"I did." She grinned at him. "The bruising is fading, I could see it when I was doing your dressings this morning. The nerves are healing."

Michael wanted to pull her to him, to kiss her like she had never been kissed before. _No. _ He had taken advantage of her once, he wouldn't do it again. Instead, he let her experiment, finding the parts of his arm and hand where the sensation was returning, and the other areas that were still numb. He glanced for a moment at the other tables. Most of them were empty. At this time of year, this late in the day there was a definite nip in the air. The few that were occupied undoubtedly wondered what the two of them were doing, laughing like idiots every time she found another spot where he could feel her touch. _To hell with them. _What anyone else thought didn't matter. _It had been a very good day._

"Ah, Caitlin, my dear. I didn't know I'd find you here."

"Admiral, it's good to see you. Come on in. Michael is in the den."

"Oh please, dear. Call me John. All my friends do."

From where he sat at the computer, Michael could clearly hear the voices approaching, and chuckled It sounded like the Admiral was in his usual form, and was trying to hit on Caitlin. The man had to be somewhere past eighty, but still considered anything female and over the age of consent to be fair game.

He rose as the older man entered, carrying a large shopping bag. The Admiral started to extend his hand, then quickly snatched it back, trying to cover the motion. "Michael, son, how are you doing?" he asked, setting the bag on the coffee table.

"I'm fine. How are you? Can I get you a drink?"

The Admiral paused to consider it. "As I recall, you've got some pretty good Scotch around here somewhere."

"I'll go get it. You two visit," Caitlin offered. "Michael, can I get you anything?"

"I'll take the same, if you would,." he answered. She left them as they sat down. The Admiral eyed him critically. "How are you, really? Not the pablum you feed everyone else."

"Tired," Michael admitted, grudgingly. "A little worse for the wear, but I'll live."

The older man glowered at him. "You damn well better. Someone's got to keep the committee in line." He reached for the bag that he had brought with him. "I bought you a little get-well present."

Michael raised an eyebrow. Knowing his friend, that could be anything from a box of cigars to a high-priced call girl, although the call girl undoubtedly wouldn't fit in the bag. "I'm afraid to ask."

The Admiral pulled out a box and set it beside the bag. "It's a Nintendo. Top of the line model. I threw in a few game cartridges I thought you might like." He nodded toward Michael's arm. "Best thing going to improve your dexterity."

"Going to be awhile before I'm playing video games, I'm afraid."

"You'll get there."

They were interrupted by Caitlin's return with the Scotch. "Michael, while you've got company, I'm going to run over to my apartment and pick up a few things, if that's okay?"

"Take your time."

The men watched her go. "She's staying here, is she?" The Admiral asked, with a crooked smile.

"Take your mind out of the gutter. Marklin wouldn't let me out of the hospital without having someone here, and Marella wasn't available. That's all it is."

The other man eyed him. "So, nothing's gone on between...?" He snorted as Michael looked away. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"Once. It was a mistake. She was vulnerable, and I took advantage,"" Michael admitted.

"Vulnerable my ass." The Admiral sipped his Scotch. "That girl is interested. Damn interested."

"Don't be ridiculous. For one thing, I've got nearly twenty years on her."

That brought a laugh from the older man. "Like that's ever slowed me down. Trust me, that wasn't vulnerability I saw in her eyes when she looked at you."

"John, enough. It's not going to happen again."

The Admiral shrugged. "Your loss." He hesitated. "One thing. Did you at least get her a Christmas present?"

"What?"

He sighed. "You left for Cambodia in the middle of December. It's now well into January. Girl saves your miserable ass, the least you could do is get her a present."

Michael realized that he had, indeed, essentially forgotten the holidays. He'd been in the hospital as they passed, and while he was aware of their passage, it wasn't something he had consciously thought about. "I'll take care of it."

"That's more like it." The Admiral put his glass down. "You know, I'm proud of you, son. The Firm -- hell, our entire government -- was willing to leave those men over there. The committee is going to make you pay for it, but you did the right thing."

"I did what I felt I had to do. I made a promise to Hawke."

"And you would have gone after them even if you hadn't made that promise, wouldn't you?"

Michael considered it. "I don't know,"

"You would have. I know that, even if you don't."

"What happens to them now?" He didn't trust the Firm. Those men had been rescued once before, only to be thrown back into that mess. He didn't want it to happen again.

"They're going home as heroes. I intend to see to it personally. You have my word on that."

Michael knew that as retired military, the Admiral would make sure the men were returned home, even if they were Army rather than his beloved Navy. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. I just wish I could square it with the committee. Zeus would like nothing more than to have your head."

"Doesn't surprise me."

"What is it with you two? That bastard has one hell of a hard-on pointed in your direction."

"You don't know? No, I guess you wouldn't." Michael closed his eyes and sighed loudly. "Tatyana Pettrov."

"A woman?"

Michael blinked. "Not hardly." He rose, carrying his glass with him as he paced. "It was a long time ago. I was in charge of Zebra Squad at the time. Zeus... Zeus was one of my operatives. He was assigned to take out a courier. He got the courier, all right. But he was sloppy. He killed a nine year-old girl. Tatyana Pettrov. For absolutely no reason, other than impatience."

The Admiral shook his head. "God, what a business this is."

"Yeah. I went to the committee and threw a fit. They promised me that he would be severely reprimanded." Michael snorted. "He was reprimanded, all right. They slapped his wrist. Three years later he was my superior." He downed what was was left of the Scotch. "And that's why Zeus did away with my division and tried to transfer me out of the country the second I turned my back."

Caitlin glanced over at Michael as she drove, her eyebrow hiking in amusement. "You're going to wear a hole in that thing."

"Good."

They had come from his physical therapist's office. The news had been positive, in the week and a half since he had gotten out of the hospital, Michael had regained considerable movement in his hand, and some in his wrist and elbow. The rubber ball had become a constant companion. He worked it continually, flexing his fingers, trying to rebuild his strength.

"Are we headed back to the house?" She doubted it. Caitlin had given up on trying to convince him that he should stay home and rest. Injured or not, he wasn't one for sitting still. She was certain he would want to stop somewhere. At least they were in the Mercedes; she was a lot more confident driving that than the Ferrari, especially in traffic.

"No, we're going shopping."

"Shopping?" That could mean almost anything.

"Head for Thousand Oaks," he told her cryptically, smile playing on his lips.

Michael's good mood was contagious. The therapist had, without too much badgering, agreed to let him work on his own at home, and only visit the office once a week. It was an arrangement that made sense. Unlike many patients, Michael would push himself as hard or harder than the therapist would.

He interrupted Caitlin's thoughts. "Turn left at the next light, and find a place to park."

She did as he asked, parking the car and getting out with him. Caitlin looked around. The stores in the area seemed to be mostly boutiques and specialty shops, nothing that she pictured him being interested in. "So where are we headed?"

"Taj."

She had heard the name before, although she had never been in the store. They sold high end women's clothing, well out of her price range. It seemed an odd place for Michael to be shopping. _ Perhaps Marella had a birthday coming?_

He led her into the store, and started scanning the racks, seemingly looking for something in particular. After a few minutes, he picked out a dress and held it up. It was a deep green that was not quite teal, but had just a trace of blue in it. The neckline was cut low without being too revealing, and one side split half way up the thigh. "What do you think?"

"Exquisite." She couldn't picture Marella wearing it, though.

"Try it on." He handed it to her.

"Me?" She glanced at the size. It should fit her, but she really couldn't see the sense of trying on a dress that she could never afford.

"Please. I want to see what it looks like on you."

"Okay," she agreed, and took the garment into the dressing room. Caitlin returned a few minutes later, turning to model the dress for Michael.

"You like it?" he asked.

"You have excellent taste." Caitlin had checked her reflection in the mirror. She still didn't know who he was considering the dress for, but if the woman had her build and coloring he couldn't go wrong with it.

He sent her back in to change, and when she returned, he took the dress from her and gave it to the clerk to wrap.

"You're going to make someone very happy with that." Caitlin told him as he paid the bill.

He handed her the bag, grinning as they walked out of the shop. "I'm glad you like it."

She realized abruptly what he was saying. "Michael, you can't – I saw the tag, that's way too expensive!" He had insisted on paying her bills in exchange for her staying at the house and caring for him. There was no reason for him to buy her extravagant clothing.

They had reached the car. "Cait, if you haven't figured it out by now, money isn't an issue. If I never work another day, it still won't be. What's the sense of having it if you don't spend some of it on someone once in awhile? I want you to have the dress."

Caitlin opened the door of the car, and carefully put the bag in the back. "Well, I guess if you're sure. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He got in the car. "You can wear it tonight."

"Tonight?"

"You missed Christmas and New Year's while I was in the hospital. I think I owe you a night out on the town."

"Nonsense. You don't owe me anything."

"Maybe I just want an excuse to go out."

"Well, if you really feel up to it." She started the car, and an idea occurred to her. Caitlin grinned. "One thing, though. Since you picked a dress for me, I guess I get to decide what you wear?"

Michael laughed. "Why do I have the feeling I'm going to regret this?"

Michael's idea of a night on the town was an evening spent on the Sunset Strip. He had hired a limo; it dropped them off, and would meet them again at the end of the night. Dinner was at an Italian place, still relatively quiet early on a weekday night. After tiramisu and coffee, they strolled down the street, window shopping and listening to the music that drifted out of the various clubs through open doors.

They paused outside one establishment, and Caitlin found herself humming along with the music. "So, you're a Phil Collins fan, are you?" Michael asked.

"I like the song."

"Want to go in?"

She looked up at him. "You like this kind of music?"

"That surprises you?" He led her into the club.

"I would have picked you for classical. Jazz, maybe." String had teased her about her taste for popular music. Michael was older, she hadn't expected him to enjoy it any more than String had.

Michael grinned. "I have eclectic tastes."

They sat down at a table, and a waitress came to take their drink order. Caitlin wasn't sure she believed him about his tastes in music. A new song started playing. "So who's that?" she asked, testing him with a smile.

"The Pet Shop Boys. Do I pass?"

"You pass." She eyed him. Michael was a handsome man. The dark dye was fading out of his hair, and his mustache had grown back. Caitlin had searched the recesses of his closet and dressed him in a red shirt and black pants, probably something he had bought for some undercover op.. At any rate, it looked good on him.

The waitress brought their drinks, and he sipped at his wine. The music changed again. "And that's Cyndi Lauper. 'True Colors'." He stood up and reached for Caitlin's hand. "Dance with me."

She was tempted, but shook her head. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I'm not planning to do the Rumba. Come on."

Caitlin rose, and he pulled her to him. She was still reluctant. "What about your knee?"

"What about it? It's stiff when I first get up, and I don't need the weatherman to tell me when it's going to rain. Other than that, I don't think about it." He held her close, and they moved in time to the music.

She knew that he hadn't carried the cane since Cambodia. She had asked him about it once, and he had joked that with his arm in the sling, he was running out of hands. It was obvious that he didn't need it. Caitlin relaxed into his embrace. She laid her cheek on his left shoulder, her fingertips idly stroking the fabric of the sling. _Being with Michael felt right. _ She wished the song and the night would last forever.

They danced the slow dances, sipping wine at their table in between. The evening passed too quickly, and eventuality Michael gestured to his watch. "I'm afraid we're going to have to go, if we're going to catch our ride."

The limo was scheduled to meet them two blocks to the west, but Michael had allowed enough time for a leisurely stroll. The night air was cool, and she shivered, wishing she had brought a sweater.

"I'd offer you my jacket, but you didn't have me wear one," he teased.

"Every jacket you own is white. It would have ruined the look." Caitlin was every bit as capable of teasing as he was. "It's fine, it's not that cold."

"Did you have a good time?"

"I had a great time. Thank you."

"We'll do it again some night."

She was feeling adventurous. "Next time, you pick the music."

He laughed. "You're a brave woman."

Caitlin cringed. "Oh no. What have I volunteered for? Mozart? The opera?"

"What do you think?"

She considered it. "Honestly, I haven't got a clue." Every day, she felt she knew him better, yet predicting anything about Michael was still nearly impossible.

"The Doors. Cream. Moody Blues. Maybe a little Pink Floyd."

"The oldies, you mean." She laughed at his scowl. It really wasn't what she would have expected of him. "I think I can live with that."

They had reached the limo, and he opened the door for her, following her into the car's warmth. Caitlin wished that he would move closer, but he maintained his distance, staying on his own side of the car. She debated sliding over beside him. The evening had been wonderful, but there was a part of her that wished for something more. _No._ Michael might not be willing to admit it, but he still had broken bones in his shoulder. The memories of seeing her hands drenched in his blood were still vivid. Worse, she could still remember his words. _It never should have happened_. Words she wished he hadn't said.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Caitlin turned, looking over her shoulder at him. "If Dr. Marklin knew, he'd have a fit."

Michael's hand rested on her back, and he guided her forward, keeping her moving toward the far side of the garage. "Marklin knows me. He wouldn't be surprised. He'd just sigh and mumble something unintelligible. " He opened the passenger door of the Ferrari. "Lloyd would have the fit." He gestured toward the seat. "Come on. Get in."

She did as he asked, obviously reluctant. Michael closed the door and walked around to the other side of the car, opening it. He reached up with his left hand and slipped the sling over his head, easing his right arm free. He tossed the fabric into the car, and followed it himself. Keys jangled as he passed them to Caitlin.

Michael propped his arm up carefully, resting his hand on the gearshift and making sure the position was comfortable. He glanced over at Caitlin. "Fire her up."

The look she flashed at him was still dubious. "You're sure?"

It had been a little more than a month since he had gotten out of the hospital. Lloyd's elaborate torture devise that had kept his arm strapped to his body had been replaced by a simple cloth sling. Increasingly, around the house he didn't even wear that, tucking his hand into his shirt when his arm tired. Caitlin had taken to calling him "Napoleon." He looked over at her, grinned. "Yeah, I'm sure."

She leaned over and twisted the key. It annoyed him that he couldn't do it himself, but reaching the ignition was out of the question. He still had very little movement in his shoulder. The doctors had promised him that as the bones healed, it would get better. He would never get everything back, he had come to accept that. He had no feeling in his ring and pinkie fingers, and they predicted he would only have seventy to eighty percent range of motion in his shoulder. It would be enough. It would have to be.

He reached across with his left hand and released the parking brake. Without being asked, Caitlin thumbed the remote to open the garage door. "Cait? Back me up."

"Hmm?"

"Put your hand over mine. If I have trouble..."

"Got ya."

Michael felt her hand cover his on the shift lever. He pushed down on the clutch, trying not to flinch. Driving the Ferrari still played havoc with his knee, but he'd be damned if he would give it up if he didn't have to.

Shifting turned out to be easier than he had feared, and soon Caitlin removed her hand from his. He missed her touch, momentarily considering grinding the gears to get it back. _No._ If he did, she would give him a hard time about driving. Instead, he turned the car and headed out of town for a stretch of road that he knew would be quiet at this time of afternoon.

They blasted down the empty highway. "You're going to get a ticket," she warned.

"I don't think so." Not taking his attention from the road, he chuckled. "You used to be Highway Patrol. Didn't you ever run a plate--"

"Oh," she interrupted him, her voice conveying a tad of disapproval. "You've got one of _those_ license plates."

"The Firm has it's perks." Despite that, he let the speedometer drop back. They were getting close to town. "How do you feel about Chico's tonight?"

"Fine. I take it you're in the mood for Mexican?"

"Something like that." In reality, his choice had more to do with the restaurant's location away from downtown traffic and with their valet parking. He wasn't ready to try parallel parking on the street.

After dinner, Michael asked Caitlin to drive. He had proven what he needed to prove to himself. "Where are we headed?" she asked, starting the car.

"Anywhere but home. You decide." It had, technically, been Caitlin's turn to pick the restaurant and the entertainment. Earlier, he had let her talk him into going shopping, That was how he had ended up wearing a deep blue shirt. _A deep b__lue, she claimed, that matched his eyes_. Somehow, he had managed to convince her that white pants would go nicely with it.

He glanced over at her. _She would be gone, soon_. Back to her own world, her own apartment. It had been some time since he had actually needed her help. The skin had healed, there were no more dressings to change, and he had enough use of his arm to do most things for himself. She had offered to go, once, and he had stalled her, complaining about boredom. That excuse wouldn't work forever. The house would be damned empty without her.

He felt the car slowing, and he snapped himself out of his musings. "The beach?" he asked, mildly surprised to see where they were.

"You feel like walking?"

"Sure," he lied. After not having driven the Ferrari for nearly two months, the clutch had aggravated his knee, but he wasn't going to admit that. Caitlin parked, and retrieved the jackets she had remembered to bring.

They walked the length of the boardwalk, pausing at the far end. Michael stood at the railing, looking out at the ocean in the starlight. Caitlin joined him. "You're awfully quiet tonight."

He shook his head slightly. "It's nothing."

Despite the darkness, he could see the rise of her eyebrow. "Nothing?"

He looked back toward the water. "I used to be something of a beach bum. Spent a lot of time here."

"Used to be?"

He scowled. "My back can't take the sun." He didn't add that he had no intention of showing that much skin on a beach full of people.

"God, Michael, I didn't think..." She reached up, touched him, her hand light on his shoulder.

It would be so easy to turn into her embrace. Wrap his arm around her waist. Lower his lips to hers. _No. _ He didn't want pity. Especially not from Caitlin. He forced himself to pull away. "Come on, let's head back to the house."

Caitlin pushed the front door open with her foot, juggling the bags of groceries. "Michael?" she called out. It wasn't like him not to come and help her. _Perhaps he was on the phone?_

She went into the kitchen, lowering the bags onto the counter. The phone was on the hook, if he was using it, he was on the extension in the den. "Michael?"

It occurred to her that after the previous night's outing, he might be in the garage, trying to figure out how to start the Ferrari without her help, She had parked by the front door, so if he was, she wouldn't have seen him. She started putting perishables into the refrigerator. Caitlin was almost finished when a flicker of movement outside on the deck caught her attention. She looked up. Michael. No, not Michael. _Archangel._ In full-on white regalia.

She quickly stowed the rest of the meat. Quietly, she joined him on the deck, coming up beside him. _Archangel_, she confirmed. Three piece suit, white silk tie, panama hat. His arm even hung in a white sling. The only thing missing was the cane, and she spotted that leaning against the railing. "Michael?"

He looked at her, finally. "I had company while you were gone."

She had been out for a few hours, running errands before stopping for groceries. "Oh?"

"Zeus called shortly after you left. He asked if he could stop in."

That explained the suit. Zeus hadn't visited Michael -- not in the hospital, not since. Until today. She doubted that it was a social call. "What did he want?" Whatever it was, it wasn't good. She could tell that much.

"He's talked to the doctors. Sick leave is over. He wants me back at work." Michael had turned back to stare into the distance.

That should be a good thing, but apparently it was not. She felt the lump lodge in her throat. "Doing what?" If they had offered him his old job back, he wouldn't be out here.

"Liaison."

"Liaison to who?"

"Congress. The White House. Foreign Intelligence. Vendors. Whoever needs to be finessed. The Firm is looking for a glorified PR agent." He turned toward her, scowling. "The position is based in Washington."

Washington. She felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. If he went to DC, she might never see him again. "What are you going to do?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't know. He wants an answer next week"

"What happens if you don't take the job?"

"I'm out. Zeus offered me early retirement on medical grounds, if I wanted it."

"It's an option, I suppose," Caitlin offered.

He snorted. "Retirement? You know how well I sit around and do nothing, Within six months, they'd have to lock me in a padded cell."

"Could you get a job working for someone else?"

He appeared to consider it. "Probably. There are always security positions available in the private sector."

She raised an eyebrow, remembering. Ken Sawyer had been a former Firm employee. Michael must have followed her thinking. "They seldom get our best people."

"The committee won't give you your old job back? Airwolf?"

He shook his head. "My job no longer exists. The committee split up the division. As to Airwolf -- it's Jason Locke's, now."

"I'm so sorry, Michael."

He shrugged. "Nothing I didn't expect. It was over the day I put in for vacation. I knew Zeus would find a way to get rid of me the second I was out of sight." Michael sighed. "I had hoped that if I came back with St. John, Hawke might be able to... Doesn't matter. It's done."

She understood, now. Michael had known that keeping his word to String would cost him his position. It would cost him control of Airwolf. Ultimately, it had cost him even more.

"It was worth it," he said, as if reading her mind. "We got those men back. They're home and safe."

Was it? She wasn't sure any more. Michael looked so lost. Caitlin moved closer to his side, reaching out to wrap her arm around him. There were no words, she simply held him.

He leaned into her, face buried in her hair, his arm around her back. She felt him shift his position, and she looked up. His lips brushed her forehead. She tipped her head back further, and those lips met hers, hard and insistent.

Abruptly, he pulled away, turning his back and stepping away from her. He took a deep breath. "Damn it. I'm sorry, Caitlin. I promised myself – I promised you. I swore this wouldn't happen. I will not allow myself to take advantage of you again."

_Take advantage? _ "What do you mean, Michael?" she asked quietly.

He looked back at her over his shoulder. "You came to me looking for comfort and support. For a friend. And I..." Shaking his head, he looked away.

She came up behind him, laying her hand gently on his back. "Michael, I may have been looking for someone to comfort me, but I certainly wasn't looking for a friend."

Michael turned, staring at her. "You agreed that it hadn't been a good idea." It was as much a question as a statement.

"Of course it wasn't a good idea. You were barely out of the ICU. You almost died. I had no business seducing you."

He stood frozen. "That's what you meant? You didn't regret...?"

"I wanted you, Michael." She chanced the words. "I still do."

She wasn't sure which one of them moved, but suddenly they were in each other's arms, pressed together. He wrapped his good arm around her, lifting her off her feet.

"Michael, you can't--" she started to protest.

"Wanna bet?" He started to carry her into the house. "Hang on."

Realizing that he had no intention of putting her down, she did as he asked, careful to keep her weight to his left side. He pushed the door open and carried her inside, not letting her down until they were beside his bed. Michael crossed the room in quick strides, reaching up to pull the thick drapes before returning to her.

Caitlin thought at first that he had darkened the room so she wouldn't see the scars. Her protest went unvoiced as he pulled his glasses off and tossed them onto the night stand. _The reason he wanted the darkness._ The panama hat followed the glasses, and he slipped the sling over his head. She started to unbutton her shirt. He covered her hands with his own. "I want to do that. Please."

He kissed her as he released the buttons, moving slowly, deliberately. She knew it wasn't easy for him, he still had trouble with things that required fine motor control, things like tight buttonholes. He released the final button, and slipped the shirt from her shoulders, letting it puddle at her feet. Michael lowered his head, his mustache scratching the tender skin of her throat as he trailed kisses down her neck.

She inhaled, her hands fisting the fine cloth of his jacket. "Let me take this off."

"Go ahead." He breathed into her ear.

Caitlin eased the jacket from him, dropping it across the chair. The vest was next. She loosened his tie, the silk cool against her fingertips as it joined the pile. As she opened his shirt, his hands fumbled behind her.

"Damn, I used to be able to do this one handed." He made a joke of it, but she heard the annoyance that crept into his voice.

She laughed, and reached back to release her bra. "How's that?"

"Better."

She could feel that he was already hard. She rubbed her thigh against him, and was rewarded by a strangled moan. She felt his shudder. "Oh God, Cait." His hands went to her pants, easing them down while she released his belt.

Suddenly impatient, he kicked off the remainder of his clothes and shoes even as she removed hers.

"How do you want to do this?" she asked, uncertain of just what his physically capabilities were.

"On your back," he whispered. "I want this to be special."

She moved to the middle of the bed, and he laid beside her, taking his weight on his left side. His lips were all over her, his mustache brushing at her skin, his right hand caressing her breast, tugging at the nipple. Her skin tingled everywhere he touched her. Gasping, she ran her nails lightly over him, teasing, cautious of his shoulder.

His hand slid down her stomach, eased between her legs. She cried out as he fingered her.

Michael's breath was hot on her neck "Tell me what feels good. Tell me what you want."

There was no question. It was what she had wanted since that first night. She licked suddenly dry lips. "I want you inside me."

He slipped one long finger into her. It wasn't what she had meant, but it felt too good to complain. A second finger joined the first, and they twisted inside her, even as his thumb continued it's slow, methodical stroking. Electricity pulsed, arcing through her. It was more than her mind could process. She closed her eyes and let go, allowing the sensations to overtake her.

As her breathing slowed, Caitlin realized his fingers were gone, replaced by something thicker and more substantial. He was above her, taking most of his weight on his elbow. She wanted this man, more than she had ever wanted anything. She looked into his eyes, seeing the fire and passion there. There was no doubt in her mind that he wanted this just as much as she did. Michael smiled down at her. "Ready for round two?"

Caitlin returned the smile. "Oh yeah." She moved with him as he toyed with her nipple, breathed into her ear. It felt so good. Her senses were already heightened, her body already attuned to him. It felt as if the moment lasted forever, but it didn't take long. She came hard, her muscles contracting in waves as she arched against him, calling out his name.

Somehow, he was still hard, still inside her. "How could you..." she started to ask, then decided it didn't matter. Her first orgasm had been as strong as any she had ever felt, the second had exceeded anything she had even imagined possible. She feared the third might kill her – and she had absolutely no doubt that there would be a third. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him to her, wanting to feel his weight on her. She was close, she knew he was close. "Come with me, Michael. Come with me." She chanted the words into his ear.

It was everything she expected, and more. Both of them sated, Michael slipped off of her, collapsing against the pillows, breathing heavily. She rolled onto her side, reaching over to caress his face. "You okay?"

He reached up and took her hand. "Yeah. Just spent. It's been a long time since I made love like that."

_Made love_. A figure of speech, or did he mean the words? "You're still healing."

"This is a hell of a lot more fun than physical therapy." His thumb rubbed the back of her knuckles, stopping as he brushed against the ring. He chuckled. "Are you still wearing that silly thing?"

Caitlin snatched her hand away, smiling. "It's pretty, and I like it." It was more than that. He had given it to her. It might not be real, but somehow, it felt like it bound him to her.

"Damned magpie. Collecting shiny things," he teased. He took her hand again, grinning. "So, was I any good?"

She raised an eyebrow. "That was beyond anything I could ever have imagined,"

Michael chuckled. "You do know how to stroke a man's ego." He pulled her against him. "Happy?"

Was she happy? _No, she was scared_. She hated to break the mood, but she needed to know. "What are you going to tell Zeus? Are you going to take that job?"

He hesitated. "I don't know." He was silent for a few minutes. "What about you? What are your plans?"

Caitlin bit her lip. He wanted to know her plans. That could only mean that she wasn't a part of his. "I don't know," she answered. "I haven't really thought about it. Maybe I'll go home to Texas and see if the Highway Patrol will hire me back."

Michael idly stroked her arm. "What about Santini Air? I don't know Jo or St. John, but it seems like they would be grateful to have someone familiar with the operation. If not-- I do know Locke . You've got more experience with Airwolf than any of them, he'd make you part of the team in a second."

She shook her head. "I can't. One day I was out... I thought I'd stop by the hanger and pick up my final paycheck. I saw the stains on the concrete pad where that helicopter... " She inhaled sharply, fighting her emotions. "I thought I was going to be sick. I turned around and ran. I can't go back there, Michael. I just can't." Just the thought of it was nearly enough to make her gag.

"It's okay. I know. I may not remember Red Star, but even so, one trip back there was enough." He wrapped his arm around her. "What about Airwolf?"

"Airwolf was String and Dom. And you. There's nothing for me there."

_Was that a sigh of relief that she heard? _ "How do you feel about Washington?" he asked.

_Was he asking her...? _ She had to be sure. "Washington?"

"Come to Washington with me." This time there was no mistaking his meaning.

"You're taking the job?"

"Depends. I am if you'll come with me." He stroked her cheek. "I'm not sure I'm ready to walk away from the Firm, but I hate DC. Too many politicians and the weather sucks. Most importantly, it's lonely as hell."

Caitlin smiled. "I don't quite think you can still justify a nursemaid."

"I don't want you there as my nursemaid."

She wanted to be with him. It didn't matter where. But, she needed her independence. She wouldn't let him support her. "I don't see myself as a kept woman."

He laughed. "Neither do I." She could see that he was considering it. "I have an acquaintance who runs a charter service. Ernie Fox. Flies VIPs around the DC area. The Firm occasionally uses him. He'd hire you in a heartbeat."

"You think?"

"You're a damned good pilot, Cait." He paused. "I've got a brownstone in Georgetown, but if you're not ready to move in with me, we can find you an apartment--"

"I've been living with you for the last month and a half. Why ruin a good thing?" She snuggled drowsily against him.

Michael grinned, yawning. "Yeah. I'd hate to do that."

Caitlin woke perhaps an hour later. Michael was spooned against her back. From the sound of his breathing, he was asleep. She didn't want to wake him. He got far too little sleep. Besides, it felt good to lie against him, his arm draped over her.

She might have dozed again; the change in his breathing roused her. She rolled over, saw that his eyes were open, "Hi."

"Hi yourself." His voice was still thick with sleep. He kissed her forehead. "What time is it?"

She looked over at the digital clock. "Around eight,"

"Hungry?" He sounded more awake.

"Not really."

"Horny?" Humor crept into his voice.

She chuckled. "You're impossible."

He brushed a stray hair from her eyes. "Insatiable."

"Same thing." Caitlin wanted to do something for him, something to make him feel as good as he had made her feel. She reached across the night-stand and retrieved his glasses. "Put these on."

"What are you planning?" As he asked, he did as she had requested.

"I want to see what I'm doing." She reached up and turned on the lamp, then opened the top drawer of the night-stand. Caitlin pulled out the bottle of lotion she knew was there. Part of Michael's physical therapy had been massaging his arm, it was supposed to help stimulate the nerves. That wasn't what she planned to use the lotion for now.

She looked at him as she poured the oil into her hand. _So many scars._ At least three separate incisions on his knee. Rectangles of discolored skin on his thigh where they'd taken the grafts for his back. More surgery to his stomach and shoulder. The latest wounds, new skin still pink. They hadn't bothered her before. _But she hadn't been in love with him, then. _ "Roll over," she whispered.

Michael eased himself onto his stomach. Caitlin began to work the oil into his back. As bad as the marks were, she knew that the worst damage was that which couldn't be seen, the wounds Stoner had inflicted. _How much could one man take? _ She choked back the thought.

He rolled onto his back, reaching up to wipe away the tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she apologized.

"It's all right." Michael thumbed away one last tear. His voice was gentle, understanding. "Turn off the light. You don't have to do this."

She shook her head. "No. I have to. It's part of you. Part of what makes you who you are." The burns, Stoner, his father, even the Zebra Squad. They were all a part of what he was. Caitlin reached for his hand, held it. A part of her was afraid to say the words, uncertain how he would react. "I love you. I want to be with you. But you don't just come with baggage. You come with an entire set of monogrammed luggage and a steamer trunk. I have to find a way to deal with that."

He pulled her down to him, kissed her, tasted her. He finally pulled back. "I love you, too, Caitlin O'Shannessy. We'll make it work. We'll figure it out. Together."

She dipped her head, brought her lips to his. _He loved her._ That was all that mattered. She echoed his words. "Yeah. We'll figure it out. Together."

END

(Will there be a sequel? Maybe. Stay tuned.)


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